Haymitch's Games
by hufflelit
Summary: Venetia Binks, our moronic Capitol escort, reaches back into the reaping bowl. I'm willing her so hard not to say "Haymitch Abernathy," that at first, I think I've just imagined her calling my name. Then someone gives me a little shove from behind and it hits me. I am a tribute in the Hunger Games.
1. Chapter 1

1

"Hey, Abernathy!"

The shout cuts through the excited end-of-year chatter and the schoolyard goes silent. Hairs stand up on the back of my neck as dozens of eyes train on my back.

I know I should keep walking. All Cove Bluet wants is a fight, and I should be the bigger man that doesn't give it to him. Dad would say that it's my responsibility to ignore slugs like Bluet, because one day we'll all be in the mines together, and every man is equal underground.

Instead I stop, every muscle in my body tensing for a fight. Dad isn't here, and to be honest, I've been looking forward to this.

I scan the faces in the crowd and don't find a single sympathetic one. Good – Marlys and Vernie aren't here. As long as my girlfriend and my little brother aren't watching, I don't have to hold back.

"How many times is your name in the reaping bowl?" Bluet taunts. His voice is mocking, but there's real rage there, too. Like any of this is my fault.

I turn to face him, anger racing through my veins and tingling in my limbs.

"What's the matter, Bluet?" I ask, raising my voice so everyone can hear. "You don't know how to count?"

The faces around me harden as I confirm everything they've ever thought about me. Haymitch Abernathy doesn't have to take tesserae. Haymitch Abernathy thinks he's better than the other Seam kids. Haymitch Abernathy wishes he was a townie. Haymitch Abernathy – the mine captain's arrogant, spoiled son.

My dad's not the only mine captain, and I'm not the only captain's son, but I'm the only one the other Seam kids seem to really despise. Maybe because I'm the only one who doesn't lie down and take their abuse.

"See, 'cause my name's in there forty-three times," Bluet says. He starts circling and I mirror him, sliding my bag off my shoulder and tossing it to one side. "And I think your name's only in there five times. And I don't think that's fair."

The crowd closes in around us, a sea of faces just as brown as mine. I might look Seam, but as far as they're concerned, I'm nothing. I spot a few blonde town kids in the crowd, but I'm not one of them, either.

Someone starts chanting "Fight! Fight! Fight!" and pretty soon everyone is saying it. Quiet enough that the teachers won't hear, but loud enough that Bluet and I don't really have a choice. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the sweetshop twins pulling some of the younger merchant kids away.

"That's not my fault, Bluet," I call over the jeers. "I didn't tell your parents to have six kids."

Of course I'm right, so of course Bluet has no comeback. So, of course, he attacks me.

He lunges, coming in low like he's going to tackle me at the waist. He's slow, and I have plenty of time to dodge to the side. I wait until the last moment to do it, then stick out my foot to trip him.

Bluet slides across the dirt on his face as kids scatter out of the way.

He scrambles to his feet, breathing hard. There is absolute hatred in his eyes.

He lunges again. This time I'm not fast enough, and we both go down. The momentum throws off Bluet's aim, so his punch glances off my nose. I taste blood and promise myself that's the last hit he'll land.

I grab him by the collar and slam my forehead into his nose to show him how it's done. His blood spatters my face and he roars.

I've been in enough fights to know what I'm doing. I also get more food than Bluet does, which makes me stronger and faster. I guess life really isn't fair. Too damn bad.

I take advantage of Bluet's distraction and flip him onto his back, pinning his arms with one hand and using the other to punch him in the gut. I hear the breath whistle out of his lungs and I punch him again.

Big hands grab my shirt and haul me off Bluet. I kick out at my attacker until I realize it's the English teacher, Mr. Mellark. One of my kicks connects with his shin and he gives me a rough shake.

"Enough!" he yells. I spot Mr. Mellark's younger brother Donel lurking on the edge of the crowd and stop wondering how the English teacher got here so fast. I scowl at Donel. He smiles back. Jack-off.

Bluet's still on the ground, coughing in the dust. As soon as he gets his wind back, he shoots me a filthy glare.

"He started it," he wheezes.

"You lying sack of –" I start towards him before Mr. Mellark shoves me back.

"I don't care who started it. The school year is over. It's not my problem. You can fight in your own neighborhoods, _not_ at school." When no one moves, he shouts, "_Now!_"

The crowd starts to drift away. Bluet's friends help him to his feet, patting him on the back like he's some sort of hero, like I didn't just kick his ass. He spits blood at my feet and turns to go, surrounded by his pack of idiot pals.

I start to leave too, but Mr. Mellark's hand clamps down on my shoulder.

"Go home, Donel," he tells his brother. Donel shrugs and hurries to catch up with his townie friends.

I glare at the ground, waiting for Mr. Mellark to start shouting again. Blood has stopped dripping from my nose, and I can feel it drying on my upper lip. It itches, but I don't scratch it, doing my best to look bored.

"You all right, Abernathy?" Mr. Mellark asks. I look at him and he gives me a brotherly smile.

I am not his brother. And I don't need merchant jack-offs feeling sorry for me. I go back to scowling at the dirt.

"Fine," I grumble. "Can I go?"

Mr. Mellark sighs. "Sure you can. Good luck this weekend."

I turn away without a word. He doesn't know what the fight was about, I remind myself. Truth is, I've got about as much chance of being reaped as his little brother.

My schoolbag is still lying on the ground where I tossed it. I scoop it up and sling it over my shoulder. It's heavier than usual, but I don't look inside until I'm away from Mr. Mellark's pitying gaze. When I open it, I see it's been filled to the brim with dirt.

I clean out my bag behind a tree on the far edge of the Seam, using a handful of leaves to wipe off my notebooks the best I can. They're still filthy, but I think I can convince my parents that I dropped them in the schoolyard.

There's a rusted old pump nearby that no one uses much, and I go there to wash the blood off my face. Dad won't be home from the mines yet, but if Mom or Vernie sees me like this, he'll find out one way or another, and then things will really kick off. He used to get furious when I'd come home bruised and bloody from fights with miners' kids – not because I'd been hurt, but because he thought it made him look bad in front of his crew. When I was ten, he actually made me apologize to Evert Hawthorne for knocking out his tooth in the schoolyard. I did such a bad job of it that he never made me do it again. Or maybe I just got better at hiding my fights from him.

I'm bent over the pump when I hear someone come up beside me. I blink water out of my eyes and glance over at my girlfriend, Marlys. Her black eyebrows are already arched in amusement, but when she sees my face, they disappear under her bangs.

"Ouch," she drawls.

I go back to scrubbing off dried blood. Some of it's mine, but most of it is Bluet's. I call that a victory.

"You should see the other guy," I tell her, swiping water off my chin.

"I have." It sounds like an accusation and I shoot her an incredulous glare.

"You know he started it!"

"I know," she agrees, holding up her palms in surrender. "But Haymitch… do you always have to be the one to finish it?"

"What do you want me to do?" I can feel my face burning despite the cold water. Marlys doesn't get why I can't play nice with the other Seam kids, since she's one of them. I love her, but she has no clue what she's talking about. "Just lie down and take it from scum like Bluet?"

"I don't want to argue," she says, even though she started it. She reaches up and rubs a spot on my forehead that I must have missed. "It's just… you're better than him. Don't forget it."

There are a lot of things I could say. Like, I know I'm better than him – that's why I beat him. But Marlys says she doesn't want to argue, and the truth is, neither do I. Apart from my family, she's pretty much the only person in the entire district I actually like.

"Will it bruise?" I ask instead, pointing to my nose.

She stands on her toes to get a closer look, leaning against me for balance. I put my hands on her hips and do my best to stay still and not kiss her. She's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen, and I'm still trying to figure out why she bothers with me.

"Doesn't look like it," she says, stepping away. I reluctantly let her go. "You'll be all pretty for the cameras on reaping day."

A cold shiver crawls up my spine and I force myself to smile.

"Oh, joy."


	2. Chapter 2

2

"Be home before curfew, Haymitch!" Mom's voice calls from the open kitchen window. I wave to show I heard, but I can hear Vernie's voice raised in excitement, and I know Mom's already got her hands full.

I jog around the side of our house and into the Seam. The dusty streets in this part of the district are black with coal dust from thousands of miners' boots. The buildings are streaked with it. As for the people… Dad says it's easy to tell how many years a man's been in the mines. You just count the coal lines on his face.

Coal dust settles on everything in the Seam. It gets into every crack and crevice, floats on the water, coats your lungs. That's why my family lives on the very edge of the Seam, closest to town. My mother is a laundress, washing clothes for the rich people in our District. Since it's District 12, only about five people can afford to have someone else do their laundry, but those five people like their linens to come back without a speck of coal.

Of course, we can only afford to live so close to town because of Dad's job. When I was little, I was proud to be the son of a mine captain. Didn't take long for the other Seam kids to show me where to stick my pride.

The streets of the Seam are nearly deserted, even though the evening is warm and clear. Through glassless window frames, I see a few families clearing up from their meager dinners. In one house, a man is shouting. In another, a woman is singing. Other than that, the Seam is quiet. The mines closed early today so that everyone can prepare for tomorrow. For the reaping.

I try to ignore the sick shiver in my stomach whenever I think about tomorrow. Worrying about it won't do me any good. I'm 16 this year, so my name is in five times, just like Bluet guessed. I know he's not the only Seam kid facing worse odds. Maybe I'd feel bad for them if they didn't shove it down my throat every damned year.

The Seam might not be the smartest place for me to be the night before the reaping. Bluet's probably looking for revenge by now, and he's not the only one who wouldn't mind taking a few tesserae out on me. But I'm not going to let that keep me home. Tonight, I'm doing just what the rest of the kids in the Seam are doing: meeting my girl at Lover's Nook.

I reach the edge of the Seam, where the hard-packed streets turn rough and overgrown. A few more steps and I'm in the Meadow, which is actually just a big field between the Seam and the forest on the other side of the fence.

The fence wraps all the way around District 12. Sometimes it's electrified, but with all the power cuts in Twelve, keeping the fence switched on is just about the last of people's worries. It's supposed to keep wild dogs, bears and other predators out of our district. Some folks from the Seam know how to get through, and they sneak out to poach game and plants from the forest. It's dangerous, not to mention illegal, and only pretty desperate people do it. It might be even riskier than taking tesserae.

Lover's Nook is on the far side of the Meadow, where the grass slopes down to the fence, giving at least the illusion of privacy. Couples go there to court, and do other things. The night before the reaping, it's usually packed – or so I hear. This is the first year I've had a reason to go.

I can see another couple making their way along the fence to the other side of the Nook, but they're too far away for me to see their faces in the twilight. I know that Marlys will be on the side nearest the Seam, at our spot.

I slow down as I reach the top of the rise so she won't know I was hurrying. Marlys gets annoyed when I make her wait, and she's cute when she's annoyed. Sure enough –

"Haymitch Abernathy, if you had been one second later, I swear I would've left."

I grin. Marlys' mouth is twisted in a scowl, but her gray eyes are twinkling beneath her straight, black bangs. Her hair is piled on top of her head, and she's so beautiful she takes my breath away.

"I would've followed you," I tell her, putting my arms around her waist. She flings my hands away with a smirk.

"Then you would've found me kissing Dill Spargo."

I give a loud laugh and a few of the figures in the grass stop kissing to glare.

Dill is a 13-year-old worm from the Seam who will eat anything for a dare. Mud, slugs – even a goat turd once, I heard. Some people eat bugs and weeds because they're starving. Dill just does it for fun. The thought of kissing that mouth would turn anyone's stomach.

"I didn't know I was seeing a girl with such low standards," I tease.

Marlys raises her eyebrows, like her comeback is too obvious to say.

She's right, though – she definitely lowered her standards to go out with me. She's easily the most beautiful girl in the Seam – the most beautiful girl in District 12, if you don't go in for that blonde, wispy thing the merchant girls have going on – which, by the way, I don't. And I'm just… Haymitch Abernathy. The mine captain's smartass son.

I actually don't think Marlys even knew who I was before I started getting in fights with Heath and Etter, her older brothers. Both of them are bigger and smarter than Bluet, and I usually lost, but Marlys and her friends looked impressed whenever I won, so I didn't mind too much.

Then this one time, about nine months back, Etter was pounding me into the dirt behind the school building, and Marlys jumped in and socked him on the jaw. I think he was more surprised than anything – Marlys doesn't hit very hard – but it was enough to end the brawl.

No one had ever stood up for me before. I was so stunned I didn't even care that my defender was a ninety-pound girl. I'm pretty sure I fell in love with Marlys then and there.

Marlys pulls me down onto the grass, apparently tired of being mad at me for now. I lean in to kiss her, and she lets me. It still feels like a miracle every time. Her lips are soft and warm, and she tastes like mint leaves, and for the first time all week, my stomach stops squirming over the reaping, and starts squirming for a different reason.

Marlys leans back and I follow. After a while, I get brave and start playing with the top button of her dress, and she doesn't stop me. I wouldn't go any further out here, anyway. It might be enough for some people, but no girl of mine is getting bedded in the middle of a field, surrounded by the whole damn school, practically. Especially not when that girl is Marlys Seney.

I jerk back as a horrible thought comes to me.

"Your brothers aren't here, are they?"

Marlys' laugh puffs against my cheek, soft and warm as her lips.

"No," she murmurs, wrapping one of my curls around her finger. "They're in the forest, stocking up on game. In case." She doesn't need to say in case of what.

Heath and Etter are the kind of Seam kids that climb the fence and take tesserae. Both of them are built like oxen. If they were from anywhere else, they'd probably have the muscles to go with their massive frames, but as it is, they sort of look like starving bulls. Even though we haven't fought since I started seeing Marlys, I steer clear of them whenever I can.

Marlys' body is tense beneath mine, so I take my hand off her chest and start stroking her hair, smoothing her bangs back from her eyes. She looks at me, and I know I have to say something.

"It will be okay," I promise, but it sounds so stupid and hollow I don't bother saying anything else. Marlys and I haven't talked about the reaping at all. What's the point? Talking doesn't change anything, and we're not the kind of people to waste time worrying about things we can't control. But now I wonder how many times her name is in the reaping bowl.

"Four kids," she reminds me. "What if it's us?"

"It won't be," I say, but of course, it could be. It's the 50th Hunger Games this year, and in honor of the Quarter Quell, the Capitol is taking twice as many tributes. "As a reminder that two rebels died for each Capitol citizen" during the Dark Days. Well, that's not exactly a revelation – there were thirteen districts back then, and only one Capitol. Of course more rebels died.

"Look, it'll be less than an hour, and then it'll be over," I tell her, but she's already shaking her head.

"No. Then we spend the next two weeks watching four of our friends die."

I can't think of anything to say to that.

* * *

When I get home, my parents are sitting together by the fire. Mom's skin glows like bronze in the light, and the gold in Dad's hair stands out more than ever. He's lighter than the rest of us. Some of the Seam kids used to say that Dad's people were merchant cast-offs, until I got big enough to shut them up.

All three of us know there's nothing to say. Mom hugs me for a while and we all turn in early. My brother Vernie is already asleep in our room, curled up like a question mark in the middle of our bed. He's nine years old, and although he's worried about the reaping, I don't think he really gets that it could happen to us. That my name might be called. I can't imagine what it's like for my parents, knowing that once I turn 18, they'll just have to go through all this again with Vernie a year later. I don't want to think about what that will be like for me.

I slide my hands under his body and move him to the far side of the bed before climbing in myself. Vernie's like a coal oven when he sleeps, and I kick our blankets off my legs when I start to sweat. Then I get cold and have to pull them back on. I doubt my parents are sleeping, but I don't go in to them, in case they are. Anyway, I'm much too old to go to my parents because I can't sleep. And even if I wasn't, Dad stopped coddling me a long time ago.

The first time I came home from school crying, Dad told me to toughen up. That I was a man, not a baby, and I needed to act like it. He didn't even ask me what had happened. He already knew. I was six.

A few months later, I came home with a split lip and bloody knuckles, and he put me over his knee. When I tried to tell him I was just sticking up for him, he told me that I should be above idle gossip and name-calling. That I was a mine captain's son, and I should be in control of myself, always. That was when I learned to clean myself up before going home.

He has his way of dealing with being a captain, and I have mine. He buries his pride, and I wear mine like a black eye – often literally. Neither method has won us many friends.

The Games make it worse. Every year, we watch two more Seam kids get gobbled up by the Capitol. They step out of our district and onto our television screens, looking slower, skinnier and weaker than all the other tributes. Most of them don't make it through the first night. Every year, two more families close their doors and windows, shutting away their grief. And every year, Dad spends the next few weeks stomping around like he wishes it had been me.

He'd never say it, but I know what he's thinking. He's embarrassed by our privilege, ashamed to face his workers knowing that his kids are safer than theirs. Ashamed that I'm better fed and stronger, and still alive. He acts like my name could never be called. It probably won't be.

Still, I can't help the terrible thoughts that creep up on me in the dark.

What if this time, it's me? What if I'm the one on the screen, the annual lost cause from District 12, nothing but a footnote at the end of the Hunger Games recaps?

I know I feel like this every year before the reaping. I'm sure every kid does.

Just like every year, I lean my forehead against Vernie's warm back and let his steady breathing lull me to sleep.

* * *

Reaping day dawns humid and overcast, and I feel about a hundred times better than I did last night. My family is all kind of like that – we get sullen and quiet when we know something bad is coming, but once the bad thing has arrived, we tend to tackle it head-on with a wisecrack and a sarcastic smile.

Mom has starched my best shirt and pants within an inch of their lives and I moan about it while I get dressed.

"I bet I could stay home and my clothes could walk to the reaping by themselves."

"Oh, hush," Mom says, swatting me with one of the mayor's linen napkins.

"He's right, Kinner," Dad says with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "You must really want our boy to be famous – the Capitol cameras won't be able to miss him in the whitest shirt in District 12."

"You have to rub him down with Dad's uniform, or the cameras won't know what district they're in!" Vernie pipes up, and we all laugh.

Dad's been getting more sullen all week. The other night, Mom's hands shook so bad she stuck herself with her own needle and got blood on Dr. Akenson's shirt collar. Since school let out, I've spent more time out of the house than in it. But we hide all that from Vernie. He's the baby of the family, and we all want to protect him. We spend the morning channeling our nerves into jokes and sarcasm, so that Vernie doesn't see how scared we all are.

One o' clock looms larger and larger, until finally, it's time to go. We leave the house and join the stream of people walking toward the Justice Building. The only sound is the low thunder of hundreds of feet pounding the dusty road. I try to find Marlys in the crowd, but I can't see her anywhere. I think if I could see her, I'd feel better.

A lot of people don't get me and Marlys. Everyone at school reckons she's just trying to marry into a better life with a mine captain. One girl actually said it to her face, and Marlys gave her a bloody nose. Finally, I just came out and asked her.

She thought about it for a while. Then she said, "When I'm with you, I feel like maybe this is just what our lives are supposed to be."

I'm not sure I really get what she meant by that, but it sounds nice, and it's good enough for me.

I say goodbye to my family at the edge of the square. Vernie hugs my waist and Mom tells him not to wrinkle my shirt before hugging me herself. Dad squeezes my shoulder so hard it hurts. I tell them that I'll see them in an hour, and try to ignore the way my stomach is twisting into knots.

High above our heads, camera crews skitter over the rooftops like giant beetles. The gray storefronts have been covered with bright festival banners that do nothing to break the tension in the air.

I sign in and go to stand with my age group. Everyone's ignoring each other, which is fine by me. I don't like these people, and I don't see the point of pretending otherwise just because four of us are being sent to die.

On the stage, Mayor Undersee is sitting next to Venetia Binks, District 12's moronic Capitol escort, and Larvina Candlewood, District 12's one and only victor.

Larvina won the 6th Hunger Games when she was 18 years old, and she looks every one of her 62 years. She lost both legs in the Games, and even though the Capitol gave her fake ones, she never leaves her wheelchair. Mom says she thinks that's dignified. Dad says it's idiotic.

Larvina looks like a lump of wrinkled flesh that someone dropped on wheels. Her dark hair is thin and graying, and her eyes and mouth are sunken in shadow where she sits onstage next to Venetia Binks. The two of them are working hard to ignore each other, and it almost makes me smile.

Venetia is the opposite of Larvina in pretty much every way. She's tall and Capitol-thin; you can tell her figure comes from surgery and pills, not hunger. This year, her skin is dyed dark pink. Gold tattoos outline her eyes, nose and mouth. Her hair is pale pink and sits on her head like a dollop of cream.

Of the two of them, I'd take Larvina any day.

The crowd has filled in and I'm starting to feel a little claustrophobic crammed together with the rest of my class. People who usually avoid me at school can't help bumping shoulders with me now. A few kids give me cool nods, and I force myself to nod back.

At two o'clock, the mayor goes to the podium to begin his yearly history lecture. How the world fell into chaos following deadly pandemics and natural disasters, leaving the survivors to scrap over the few resources that were left. How Panem rose out of the ashes – a civilized paradise made up of the Capitol and thirteen districts. How the districts betrayed the Capitol and brought about the Dark Days.

It's nothing any of us haven't heard before. We're not here for a history lesson, I want to say. We're here to find out which of us is going to die. Get on with it.

I twist around and manage to spot Marlys among the other fifteens. I can tell she's been watching the back of my head, and she gives me a tiny smile. I send her one back, along with a wink. Her smile gets a little wider.

I try to tune out the mayor, the crowd, and the big screen showing close-ups of our miserable faces. Instead, I think about the day I met Marlys, when she punched Etter for me. She helped me up and told me I could walk her home. I think I stared at her the whole way. When we got to her house, she told me when to pick her up the next morning.

After that, I walked her to and from school every day. I'm not sure how long we would have gone on like that if Marlys hadn't finally told me that I'd better kiss her or stop wasting her time. I chose the first one.

Before I can spend too long daydreaming about that kiss, Venetia Binks teeters up to the podium in her spindly shoes, hitching a grin onto her face. Her teeth are a shocking white against her lurid skin.

"Happy Hunger Games!" she bleats in her ridiculous accent. "In honor of the Quarter Quell, four of you lucky youngsters will have the privilege of representing District 12 in the 50th annual Hunger Games."

She pauses like we're supposed to clap, but no one moves. After five years of escorting our tributes to their deaths, Venetia doesn't seem all that surprised.

"Ladies first!" she chirps to the cameras. She plunges her hand into the huge glass bowl filled with girls' names.

_Not Marlys, not Marlys, not Marlys_, I chant in my head.

"Twylah Gopelrud!" Venetia calls, stumbling a little over the name.

A tremor passes over the crowd as people sigh in despair or relief. For me, it's pure relief.

Some of the older kids in front of me crane around to see District 12's first tribute, but I don't turn. The big screen onstage shows movement among the thirteens, but it's not until one of the cameras catches her face and blows it up onscreen that I recognize Twylah as the gangly, freckled girl I've seen around the schoolyard.

The square is silent as Twylah trudges to the stage. She's a real giant, but you can tell she's done all that growing without much food – her body is flat and narrow as a fencepost. Her pale arms and legs dangle well past the seams of a rough dress that looks like it's been let out as far as it will go. Her gray eyes are huge in her thin, speckled face.

It's hard to imagine anything more pathetic. Venetia barely tries to hide her contempt as she asks for volunteers. There are none.

Venetia is back at the girls' bowl, and I hardly have time to think _not Marlys_ before it's "Maysilee Donner." One of the sweetshop twins emerges from the fifteens and goes to stand next to Twylah.

A murmur runs through the crowd – merchant reapings are rare. The blond townspeople are just a small part of District 12, and none of them have to take tesserae.

I let the whispers wash over me as my shoulders relax. It's not Marlys. And now we're halfway through.

"Now for the boys," Venetia says, but her enthusiasm is starting to flag. There aren't many likely candidates in the crowd.

Her hand goes into the boys' bowl, and the knot in my gut tightens.

_Not me, not me, not me, not me…_

"Bowen Cluff!"

Bowen is a dumb, pig-faced Seam boy from my year at school. He's one of the idiots that orbits around Cove Bluet's gang. I don't pretend I'm sorry to see him go.

_Not me, not me, not me_… I chant the words in my head as Bowen scowls his way to the stage. _Not me, not me, not me._

Venetia's pink claw is back in the bowl, and I'm willing her so hard not to say "Haymitch Abernathy," that at first, I think I've just imagined her calling my name.

Someone gives me a little shove from behind and then my legs are taking me to the stage, even though I can't feel them, and I'm pretty sure my brain's not telling them to move.

My vision goes black around the edges and I force myself to breathe. Air fills my lungs, but it feels like lead.

I barely register Venetia calling for volunteers. Next thing I know, Bowen is grabbing at my arm. For a crazy second I think that he's going to start a fight right here on stage, in front of all of Panem, but then I realize that Venetia has told us to shake hands. My legs carry me forward another step and I shake hands with Maysilee and Twylah. Then we're inside the Justice Building, being taken into separate rooms.

This is the part where the tributes say goodbye to their families, I remember through a haze. This is the part where _I_ say goodbye to _my_ family. And it finally hits me.

I am a tribute in the Hunger Games.


	3. Chapter 3

3

It takes a few moments to sink in, but once it does, I am up and looking for an escape.

I try the door, but it's locked. The windows are high up, but if I could balance one of the chairs on top of the couch –

I've just grabbed a chair when the door bursts open and Vernie's arms are around my waist. He's sobbing, and I can tell that Mom has only just stopped.

Seeing Vernie cry pulls me out of my panic. I need to be brave for him, so I sit on the couch and haul him onto my lap.

"It's okay, Vern," I promise, rocking him a little. I keep my eyes on the floor, because if I look at my parents, I know I'll lose it. I'm going to be back in front of the cameras soon, and I'll be damned if I let the whole world see me cry.

Vernie's crying so hard he starts to hiccup, his thin body jerking in my arms.

"Hey, come on," I tell him, forcing myself to laugh. "You know I can take care of myself, right?" Vernie nods against my shoulder and his sobs start to trail off.

I make myself look at my parents. Mom is crying silently, her hand clamped over her mouth. Dad's face is pale. When he sees me looking, he turns away.

Mom sits next to me and puts her arms around me and Vernie. After a moment, Dad puts his hand on my head. Then we just stay like that. All joked out.

It seems like only a few minutes have passed when there's a tap on the door to let us know our time is almost up, and suddenly I feel the panic again. Not to escape this time, but to say everything. Anything. But there's no time, and I don't have the words.

"You are my darling boy," Mom says, her voice cracking. "You will live in my heart forever."

Dad grips my hand and presses something round and hard into my palm.

"We'll be with you every second," he whispers.

"You can win, Haymitch, can't you?" Vernie asks, clinging to me as a Peacekeeper comes to take them away. "I know you can win! You're better than any of them! You'll win, right?"

He's still saying it as Dad pulls him out of the room. I don't answer. I don't want my last words to Vernie to be a lie.

That's when I realize I didn't tell any of them that I love them. And now there won't be another chance.

The door opens again and Marlys throws herself into my arms. Her cold nose brushes against my neck. I hold her tight enough that I can feel her breath hitch in her chest.

Someone clears his throat and my eyes snap open.

Heath and Etter are standing by the door. I pull away a little and Marlys lets me go. I wonder if they're there to play chaperone, but then Heath drops his eyes to the floor and growls, "Stay alive."

I nod like it's good advice.

"And don't–" Etter breaks off as we all look at him. "Don't eat anything that you don't know what it is," he finishes in a mumble. Heath gives me a nod and they leave the room.

"Haymitch," Marlys chokes, but then she's kissing me like she's never kissed me before – like I've only dreamed of kissing her – and I almost forget why I'm so scared and angry.

She pulls away and I try to follow, but she puts her hand on my mouth to stop me.

"Don't you dare go and fall for some stupid, purple Capitol brat," she whispers.

I can't believe it, but I actually laugh.

"Come on, Mar – you know purple's my favorite color."

Marlys presses her forehead against mine, her fingers digging into the back of my neck. It hurts, and I hope her nails leave marks.

"I love you." Her face twists and she starts to cry.

"I love you." I say it as fiercely as I can, trying to make up for all the times I didn't say it before, and won't say it again. To her, or to anybody else. "I love you, Marlys. You make sure," I have to swallow before I can keep going, "you make sure that whoever you end up with, you make sure he treats you right."

"I don't want to end up with anyone but you," she snaps, all fire and fury as her tears dry up.

"No, come on," I say, shaking my head. "I want to think of you happy. Tell my parents too, okay? When I think of you, I want to think of you being happy."

Marlys considers this with narrowed eyes.

"I'll be happy," she agrees, "but I won't like it."

I laugh again and pull her face toward mine.

"There's my girl," I whisper as our lips meet.

"Time's up!"

I kiss Marlys hard, one last time, and then the Peacekeeper is forcing her out of the room.

The door snaps shut. I guess I could try to escape now, but the fight has gone out of me. I wouldn't make it three yards, and then where would I be? Either dead or right back in this room, and a shame to my family either way.

My left hand is clenched around something that's digging into my palm. My knuckles pop as I open my fingers to see what my dad gave me.

It's his wedding ring.

I look at it for a long time. Tributes are allowed to take one thing into the arena – a token from their district. There are other things from home it might have made more sense for me to take, but there wasn't time to get them. We'd never even talked about what my token would be. So Dad gave me the only thing he had on him.

I bite my lip, hard, until I stop feeling like I'm going to cry. I can taste blood, but I ignore it.

In a rush of queasy heat, I realize that I'm furious at him. Furious that he didn't defend me when I was younger, furious that his shame has always been stronger than his pride. Furious at the weakness on his face when he came to say goodbye. I think about leaving his ring here, but I don't think about it for very long.

Dad's hands are bigger than mine, and the ring fits on my thumb. I put it on, and stare at it until Venetia comes to take me to the train.

We take a car to the station. I can tell that Maysilee and Twylah have been crying, and that Bowen hasn't. I'm even gladder that I didn't start.

The inside of the car is pretty, but the inside of the train is incredible. Even Twylah stops sniveling to gawk. I've never seen anything so rich or so nice, and it makes me sick. I want to smash the plushy furniture into kindling and shatter every piece of the stupid, sparkly light thing hanging from the ceiling.

"I'll bet being a tribute doesn't seem half bad now, hmm?" Venetia says with a little smirk. I decide that I'd like to smash her face even more than the furniture.

She shows us our rooms and tells us that dinner is in an hour. With a frown at Twylah's dress, she tells us that we can have any of the clothes in our closets. "To keep!" she says, like it's some great gift. Like any of us will be around to wear them in a week's time.

I don't even bother looking in my closet. I don't want anything from the stinking Capitol. My shirt still smells like the lavender water Mom sprinkles on her ironing, and I pull my collar over my nose as District 12 vanishes outside my window.

When I woke up this morning, I didn't even like my district, and my district sure didn't care for me. Our family has never fit in there, and as for the "district pride" the commentators bang on about during every Games, I've never felt it. But now I feel like I'd give both my legs to get back to Twelve. I wonder if Larvina thinks it was worth it.

* * *

Dinner is just as stupid and fancy as the rest of the miserable train, and Venetia seems to think it should make us just as grateful. She's not too impressed by Twylah and Bowen's way of being grateful, though, which is shoving as much food into their mouths as their hands can hold at once.

"At least you two know your manners," Venetia says to Maysilee and me. Maysilee's people are merchants, so of course she uses a knife and fork, and my parents made sure Vernie and I learned how. I'm guessing Bowen and Twylah have never had enough food to waste time with manners.

Bowen sneers and keeps chewing with his mouth open, but Twylah's face turns splotchy red. She stares down at her plate like she's forgotten how to eat.

Without a word, Larvina lifts a bowl of soup to her mouth and starts slurping. Venetia huffs in disgust, but I find myself grinning. I grab a chicken leg and start gnawing on it, making as much noise as Larvina.

Venetia slaps her napkin on the table and storms out of the compartment.

I turn to Larvina, expecting to share a good laugh with her, but she's scowling at me.

"Stay on her good side, boy." Her voice is surprisingly strong for such a wreck. I realize it's the first time I've ever heard it. Our tributes never live long enough for anyone to interview their mentor.

"I don't give a damn what that pink cow thinks of me," I snap.

Larvina shrugs. "Then you'll die fast."

The other three stare at her. Even Bowen's stopped stuffing his face.

"Escorts don't control what happens to tributes in the arena," I sputter.

"True. But tributes can't survive without sponsors. And sponsors only give to tributes they like. And if you can't make your own escort like you, then you don't stand much chance with the rest of the Capitol."

I gape at her, trying to come up with an answer. Before I find one, Larvina's teeth jut forward between her withered lips and she spits a full set of dentures into her palm.

I've heard that Larvina lost her real teeth even before the arena. And I guess it's as good a way as any to show that the conversation is over. We eat the rest of our meal in silence, and go to our rooms the same way.

I'm about to step through my door when Maysilee stops me.

"I thought that was nice," she whispers as Bowen and Twylah disappear into their rooms. "What you did for Twylah."

I don't need to guess why she's being so friendly. Bowen and Twylah are Seam. So am I, technically, but everyone knows I'm not "real" Seam. Half-Town, half-Seam and all-nothing. But I'm the closest thing Maysilee has to home anymore.

The only people who have ever been home to me are Mom, Dad, Vernie, and Marlys. I'm not interested in being some rich girl's security blanket.

"Thanks," I finally mumble. Before Maysilee can say anything else, I step into my room and close the door in her face.

I lie down, but the bed is too soft and my room smells like rotting flowers. I try to open the window, but it's locked.

I've been trying not to think about my family, but now I can't help it. I start pacing the room, like I can outrun my own thoughts. What are they doing now? Has Vernie stopped crying? Has Mom?

I can't get enough air in my lungs. I unbutton the collar of my shirt, but it doesn't help – I still feel like I'm choking. My fingers start twisting Dad's ring on my thumb, round and round and round, until it feels like a band of molten metal on my skin.

How did this happen? How could it be me? The odds were in my favor!

But it _shouldn't_ have been me. If this was a normal year, there would have been two tributes: Bowen and Twylah – two Seam kids, just like anyone would expect. If it had been a normal year, Venetia never would have reached into the boys' bowl a second time, never would have called my name, and I'd be asleep in bed next to Vernie, or out in the Meadow with Marlys, celebrating our good luck.

I hear the thud before I realize that I've punched the wall. It's another few seconds before I feel the pain – a dull throbbing in my knuckles and wrist that feels like it will get worse with time.

It's not enough. I look around the room, but it doesn't take long to see how carefully they've arranged everything. All the furniture is smooth and solid and attached to the walls. The only lights are behind plastic panels in the ceiling. Even the hangers in the closet are small, plastic, and attached to the closet itself. There's not even a rail for a tribute to hang himself from.

Not that I would. Would I?

My heart feels like it's punching my lungs, and my head feels detached, distant, like it's floating above my body. To be honest, I'm not that sure _what_ I would do.

It feels like I'm watching my hands from far away as they yank shirts and pants out of the closet – one by one at first, then piles of them, flinging them on the floor. Far away, my knees hum with pain as I throw myself after the clothes, my hands twisting into the soft, silky pile and tearing.

The first rip makes the long, satisfying sound of hundreds of threads snapping apart. It sounds so good that I keep going, and going, until I'm sitting in a pile of rags that are probably still worth more than my family's house.

I should be mad about that too, but all at once, the fight goes out of me. My body comes back together, and I kind of wish it wouldn't. My hands are sore, and when I look down, I see they're striped with red marks where the fabric dug into them. My jaw hurts and I realize that I've been clenching it so hard it feels like my teeth might crack. At least I didn't scream.

I look down at the heap of rags around me. Gifts from the Capitol. Seems like destroying them should make me feel better. Righteous or something. But all I feel is empty.

* * *

A/N: Thanks for reading - there's much more to come! I'd love to know what you think in the comments.


	4. Chapter 4

4

I finally fall asleep on the rags. They don't smell as flowery as the rest of the room, and the floor feels more like my bed at home, anyway.

In the morning, I don't bother washing. It's not like I've got any clothes to change into, anyway.

I look at the pile of clothes I destroyed, but I still don't feel anything. There's no point fighting, I realize. They'll get their Games, either way. The only thing I can control is how I behave.

_So control yourself, Haymitch_, Dad's voice says in my head.

A gigantic breakfast is laid out in the dining car. Maysilee and Twylah are already there, whispering together at one end of the table. Looks like Maysilee found herself another friend. Good. I don't have the energy to deal with either of them.

I eat in silence as Bowen and then Larvina come to the table. Finally Venetia stomps in. I can tell right away that she's seen what I've done.

"I hope you're very happy with yourself," she shrills, but I head her off before she can really get going.

"I'm sorry," I mumble into the sweet porridge I've been swirling around my bowl. "I won't cause any more trouble. I'll do whatever you want."

Venetia deflates. That might actually be a smile on Larvina's face. Bowen sneers. Of course, Bowen usually does.

"Well," Venetia fumbles. "Well, good. Those clothes weren't cheap, you know."

"Put them on my tab," I mutter. I really can't help it. But I shoot a smirk at Venetia so she knows I'm joking. She just narrows her eyes.

"We'll be arriving in the Capitol soon," she tells us. Her voice is a few notes south of her usual cheerful bleat. "You must all make sure you look your best!" She stares at Twylah for a second too long, then turns to inspect Bowen and me. The only thing that could improve Bowen's looks is a grain sack over his head, so she focuses on me.

"Your hand looks terrible!" she cries. I glance down and see that my knuckles have turned purple and green where I punched the wall.

Venetia sighs. "I'll get a medic."

"Leave it," Larvina says.

I glare at her, but for some reason, Venetia does as she's told. Maybe they've both decided that I need to be punished a little more.

After some more whispering, Maysilee and Twylah disappear into another car. Bowen and I keep right on eating. I can feel myself getting queasy from all the rich food, but I don't care. If I throw up on Venetia later, I'll try to pretend I feel bad about it.

The view outside the windows has turned rocky and beige, and I can see a mountain range in the distance. In school, we learned that this mountain range helped protect the Capitol from the rebels during the Dark Days. I don't understand why it couldn't protect the rebels from the Capitol.

When Maysilee and Twylah come back half an hour later, Twylah is wearing a green Capitol dress and her black hair is braided into a knot at the back of her head. Bowen, Larvina and I aren't the best audience for this sort of thing, but Venetia makes up for it by actually squealing.

"It's so nice to finally have a some tributes who understand how _lucky_ they are to be here," she coos.

I don't care what Larvina says. I am going to punch her.

I'm halfway to my feet when the windows go black. I look around and realize that the train is underground. Then we're outside again, and the Capitol is spread out in front of us.

I knew the Capitol was big – I've seen it on television – but I guess part of me thought it was exaggerated in the broadcasts, like the hype around the Games. But they haven't exaggerated the size of the Capitol. They haven't needed to.

The city sparkles in the sun like shards of glass, stretching as far as I can see. Spires of pink and blue and green glitter under a cloudless blue sky fringed by distant brown mountains.

All four of us have drifted over to the windows to gawk. As we pull into the station, our train is surrounded by a screaming mob of rainbow-colored Capitol freaks, and I pull back in disgust.

Not Maysilee, though. She slings her arm around Twylah's shoulders and waves out at the hordes, beaming. After a second, Twylah joins in.

Get them to like you, Larvina said. Well, Maysilee obviously has her strategy worked out. I sit down at the table, my back to the windows. I told Venetia I wouldn't give her any trouble, and I won't. But that doesn't mean I have to play her games.

I just have to play that other one.

* * *

They somehow smuggle us off the train and into the Remake Center without running into any of the freaks on the platform. Once we get into the Remake Center, I want to get right back on the train.

We're separated at the entrance, and I'm set upon by three obnoxious little dye-jobs whose names I immediately forget. I call them Dim, Dum and Dam in my head.

I grit my teeth while Dim strips me down and Dum plunges me into a bath of foul-smelling oil. Dam starts scrubbing me with what feels like a wire-brush. They all laugh when I yelp, so I grit my teeth and keep quiet after that.

I'm scrubbed raw, then put in another bath of white, creamy stuff. Then I'm scrubbed down again. They trim, clip, polish and wax until my skin is numb. They complain about coal dust the entire time. It's under my nails, in my hair, between my teeth, and in other places it takes everything I've got not to knock them down for touching. I'll never be clean, they moan. This will take all day. What about their dinner reservations? Why couldn't they get clean tributes, like District 4?

"What makes you think Four would take you?" I finally growl. Dim, Dam and Dum shut up after that, but their silence is hostile. I'm relieved when they finally pack up and disappear, hoping that's the last time I'll have to see them.

They leave me sitting naked on a table. The only clothes in the room are the ones I wore from Twelve, but since those are probably covered in coal dust, I guess I shouldn't put them on.

I'm starting to get cold when Dayna Lush sweeps in, almost blinding in a reflective yellow suit.

Lush has been District 12's head stylist for ten years. I'm pretty sure he's the only one willing to do the job. He made his fortune designing uniforms, first for laborers in the districts, then servants and maintenance staff in the Capitol. His big break came when he designed the Peacekeeper uniforms twenty years ago. After hosting a few failed design shows, he finally managed to get into the Games. It turned out that his imagination couldn't stretch too far beyond uniforms, though, so he's been stuck with District 12 ever since. It's hard to get much more uniform than a miner's jumpsuit, which is what he puts our tributes in every single year.

"Am I going to have a problem with you?" Lush demands by way of introduction. Dim, Dam and Dum file in behind him, still sulking.

"Nope," I grin, turning on the charm. Dam's scowl deepens.

"Good," Lush says, snapping his fingers. Dum scampers over to me, fumbling with a measuring tape. "The preps are complete back-births," Lush continues, "but they work for me. Play nice with them, and everyone's day goes a little smoother. Do you have a token from your district?"

I show him my father's ring. Lush holds out his hand, then makes an impatient gesture when I don't get it right away.

"I'll take it to be reviewed by the Gamemakers."

My fingers curl protectively over the ring on my thumb.

"Why?"

"To make sure it can't be used as a weapon."

"It's my father's wedding ring!"

"Then there shouldn't be a problem." Lush holds out his hand again. "This is entirely routine," he adds, sounding annoyed. "Everyone does it."

That's a bad reason to do anything, in my opinion, but I don't see that I have much choice. After a moment, I slide Dad's ring off my thumb and hand it over. My skin feels cold and tender where the ring used to sit, and I wonder how I got so used to it so quickly.

Lush stays long enough to approve Dum's measurements, then swishes out without so much as a goodbye. One of his trainees oversees my costuming, which involves (surprise) a miner's jumpsuit. Or at least part of one. The arms and legs are missing, and the V in the front goes down so low I'm worried Dim's going to have to take off more hair.

True to my promise to Lush, I don't complain. Not even when Dim, Dam and Dum make our entire afternoon completely pointless by smearing fake coal dust all over my face and body. One of them sticks a headlamp on me and I'm taken out to the staging area to wait for the parade to start.

The other three from Twelve are already there, their expressions ranging from surly to shell-shocked. I'm glad to see that Bowen and Maysilee's costumes are just as skimpy as mine, but at least someone had the sense to realize that Twylah actually is a child, though a giant one, and she's a little more decent.

"Can't believe I lost three layers of skin just to get smeared in coal dust again," I grumble when I join them.

Maysilee laughs, which is nice of her. I notice that her face looks less round than usual, like maybe she's actually got cheekbones. I glance at Twylah, and her face looks nicer too – less sunken. Even Bowen doesn't look quite as piggish as usual. Maybe there's more to the preps' makeup than I gave them credit for. I might be impressed if it wasn't such a stupid skill.

It's chaos in the staging area, between the tributes, mentors, horses, designers and escorts – and yes; I rank them in that order. I take the opportunity to look over the other tributes.

Eleven's are nearest to us. Three of them, two girls and one boy, are tall and lean, with skin so dark it's almost black. The other boy is the odd one out – he's short and stocky, and he keeps twitching like he's got ants under his skin. Or maybe the grain skirt he's wearing is itching him.

A few others stand out from the crowd – a tall, gangly redhead from Five, a tiny girl from Seven and a tinier boy from Nine, a girl with long, slanted eyes from Eight who might be the most beautiful girl I've ever seen (apart from Marlys), and a boy with a crippled hand from Three. Looking at him makes me queasy, and my eyes go to the Careers.

Sure enough, the tributes from One, Two and Four are massive – all clearly eighteen, all clearly volunteers. Just like every other year. Unlike every other year, there are twelve of them. They're standing in a big group together, laughing and goofing around like they're at a market day.

Venetia finally totters in, Larvina rolling along behind her.

"It looks like Dayna's done it again," Venetia trills.

"We look stupid," Bowen grumbles. "Everyone at home will be laughing at us."

"Don't be an idiot," Maysilee snaps. "No one at home is laughing."

Bowen scowls at the floor and doesn't answer. Maybe because he knows she's right. The Games might entertain people in the Career districts, but no one even pretends to enjoy them in Twelve.

The four of us avoid each other's eyes as the silence becomes uncomfortable.

"Well, up you go!" Venetia chirps, shooing us into the carriage. "Dayna should really be the one to arrange you, but… Haymitch and Maysilee, you two in front. Bowen, behind Maysilee, please, and Twylah – yes, that's right." She fusses around us as a Capitol attendant hitches our chariot to four black horses that look like they should be pulling a funeral carriage. I guess the dopes in the Capitol haven't heard about irony.

Lush shows up at the last second, surrounded by a scurrying mass of preps and trainees.

"All right everyone!" he cries, clapping his hands together. "Big smiles at the crowd and remember to waaaaaave." He cups his hand and swivels it back and forth to show us how it's done.

"Okay, if we wave like that, people at home might actually laugh," I mutter to Maysilee. She rolls her eyes.

Someone grabs my wrist and I jerk around, pulling away on instinct. But it's only Larvina, her head barely reaching to my wrist. She slaps my right hand on the edge of the chariot and gives me a look that says, _leave it_.

I look down at my fingers where they grip the smooth, black wood. The preps tried to cover up the bruises with their fake coal dust, but plenty of purple and brown still shows through. I don't understand what Larvina wants from me, and I'm about to ask when the chariot rolls forward with a jolt and I'm hanging onto the edge anyway to keep myself from falling on top of Twylah.

The tribute parade has begun.

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear what you think of the story so far.


	5. Chapter 5

5

The next half hour is a blur of cheering crowds, bright lights, and the jolting of the chariot. I've never seen so many people in my life, and apparently, they all want to scream themselves hoarse at us.

The sight and sound of them turns my stomach. I stare straight ahead, refusing to wave, but the crowd seems more interested in the chariots ahead of us anyway. I don't blame them – who wants to look at scrawny, coal-streaked losers when the muscular tributes from Four are naked and sparkling like fish or the hulking tributes from One are encrusted with jewels?

By the time our chariot rolls onto the City Circle, I'm pretty sure the thundering music and shrieking mob have done permanent damage to my ears. President Snow gives a speech that I mostly ignore, then we're wheeled around the Circle one more time so everyone can get a good look at us in our miner's underwear and headlamps. It's almost a relief when the doors of the Training Center close behind us. Except the next time I leave this building, it will be to go into the arena.

* * *

I lie in bed hours later, trying to fall asleep. My body feels exhausted, but my brain refuses to shut down. I toss and turn in the slippery sheets for a while. Finally, I give up and wander out of my room.

The table in the dining area has been cleaned after our enormous supper. I look around for leftovers, but they must have been packed up. Or, more likely, thrown away. I've seen so much waste since I left Twelve that it's becoming less shocking. It's no less infuriating, though.

I can hear the distant roar of the Capitol calling for my blood in the streets. I stand at the window to watch them for a while, but I can't hear what they're chanting, and I despise them too much to care.

I drift over to the massive television in the sitting area. There's a fancy controller covered in buttons, and I mess around with it until I manage to turn on the set. I get a blue screen for a while, then static. I'm about to give up when I finally get a picture. They're showing a recap of the tribute parade.

In the districts, we only have one station: the Capitol's official broadcast. I've heard that people in the Capitol have hundreds of channels. Part of me wants to change to another one, but I'm not sure how to do it without going back to the static, and I'm also a little curious to see myself on television.

They're showing District 5 when I tune in, and the commentators are gushing about the tributes' outfits. Five produces power, and their tributes are wound in narrow tubes that glow unnatural blues, pinks, yellows and greens.

Six comes next. That's the transportation district, and their stylists have dressed the tributes in sleek, silver costumes that mimic the streamlined Capitol trains.

There's an obvious theme here: everyone is better dressed than us.

I tune out the commentators' chatter about the clothes and focus on what they're saying about the tributes. It isn't much. The audience won't really learn about us until they release our training scores and we do our interviews.

I find out that the small girl from Seven is called Flitch, and that she's twelve years old. "It's always a little sad when that happens," one of the commentators admits. It doesn't sound like he'll lose sleep over it.

The gorgeous girl from Eight is called Shibori. One of her fellow tributes, Bobbin, is roughly the size of the horses pulling their chariot. "Definitely one to watch out for in the arena!" a commentator says. Another one laughs. "He looks like he could crush some of these other tributes just by sitting on them!"

As if to prove their point, the District 9 chariot appears carrying the tiny boy named Bryn, who's even smaller than Vernie, despite being four years older.

There are two dark-haired sisters from Ten: Dolly and Beulah. The commentators try to predict how their relationship will affect their performances in the arena.

Eleven's chariot rolls out and the commentators share a good chuckle over the short boy, whose name is Raize, and who looks very out of place surrounded by his towering fellow tributes. "Can't see any intra-district alliances forming there!" one of the commentators chortles.

Then we appear. The commentators groan good-naturedly about our boring costumes and rib Dayna for a while.

I didn't notice it during the actual parade, but the crowd has gotten quieter as the district numbers climbed. By the time we pull onto the main avenue, their cheers sound more like a force of habit than actual excitement. I guess they've seen enough outer district tributes die without a good fight that they're bored of us. And District 12 has the worst record of all.

"Hang on," exclaims one of the commentators. "Is that a bruise on Haymitch Abernathy from Twelve?"

They cut to a close-up of my right hand, which is still clutching the chariot where Larvina put it.

"Oh-ho, that's definitely a bruise! And from a direct hit, I'd say."

"Looks like someone's been naughty!"

"Do we have footage to show where he got an injury like that?"

"Well, I don't think we have to look very far for that answer, do we?" The commentator pauses to give the others time to scratch their heads. "Aetius Powell's black eye had to come from somewhere!"

They cut to a shot from earlier in the parade, and I see that one of the tributes from Two is sporting a black eye. And the commentators are pretending that I did it.

They're all laughing now, calling me a "dark horse" and a "naughty boy." One of them cheerfully reminds the TV audience that fighting among tributes is prohibited outside the arena – "but only if they get caught!" another interrupts. They're all still chuckling when the broadcast cuts to President Snow's welcome speech.

I lean back in my chair, mind racing. Can anyone actually believe that I got in a fight with Aetius Powell, and _won_? But the commentators sure did, and they as good as told the audience so.

I remember Larvina telling Venetia not to fix my hand, and then making sure I showed off the bruises during the parade. Could she have meant for this to happen?

"Looks like Larvina's pretty smart, after all."

I turn to see Maysilee curled up in a window seat on the other side of the room. She's half-hidden by a curtain, and I wonder if she's been there all along.

I look away with a shrug.

"Guess so."

I hear Maysilee unfold herself and pad over to where I'm sitting.

"You know, I was thinking about asking her to actually mentor us, instead of just tossing out random advice every time you screw up."

"Knock yourself out."

Maysilee lets out a noisy sigh, sounding just like Venetia.

"Could you at least pretend that you care about any of this?"

I glare up at her.

"Why would I do that?"

Maysilee actually stamps her foot, which is something I thought girls only did in Capitol movies.

"Did you even _hear_ that?" she demands, flinging an arm at the television. "Plinius Hollingsworth just said _your_ name. In front of all of Panem! People actually know who you are right now. Not just in Twelve – _everyone_ in Panem knows that you exist, and for the next few days, they actually care. Most people will never have that."

My lip curls. Can merchant girls really be this shallow?

"Lucky them," I snarl.

"Yeah, lucky them," Maysilee agrees with a roll of her eyes. "And unlucky us. But we have a chance – a real opportunity, Haymitch – to make a statement in front of everyone! We could send a message, and they can't look away."

That pulls me up for a second. Send a message? I guess she's right, but what kind of message are we supposed to send? I guess I'd want to tell my family that I love them, if I could, but no one else in Panem will care about that, and I wouldn't want them to hear it anyway.

"What kind of message?" I ask after a moment.

Maysilee drops into the chair next to mine. She's facing the TV, and her eyes reflect the pictures on the screen.

"My sister and I used to talk about that. What we would say if the whole world was watching." She looks toward the windows, where we can see lights from the celebrations. "Myralynn always said she'd want people to know what life is like in Twelve, how much people need food and medicine that they aren't getting."

I have to admit, I'm surprised by this. I don't think I ever spared a thought for Maysilee and Myralynn Donner, twin daughters of the sweetshop owner. To be honest, I never thought much about any of the shopkeepers' kids, except to label them as privileged brats who'd never know the meaning of an empty stomach or an eight-hour shift in the mines. I always assumed they had as much food and medicine as they needed. But I guess people assume the same about Vernie and me, and they'd be wrong about that, too.

"And what would you want people to know?" I ask.

"I want people back home to see that we're no different from each other. Merchant or miner – we're all Twelve. We're all going to live and die inside the same fence – well, apart from us, obviously – and we all have the same history and the same fears. It's wrong how the Capitol pits us against each other."

"How do you mean?"

Maysilee blinks, distracted from her daydream of a perfect Twelve, where everyone holds hands and sings songs. "What?"

"What do you mean, the Capitol pits us against each other?"

Maysilee blinks again, but this time her face is incredulous.

"You're _kidding_, right?" I feel my face heat up as she laughs at me. "Well, tesserae, for one thing – what better way to make the miners resent the merchants than by forcing poor kids to risk their lives to feed their families?"

I can honestly say that I've never considered this. My family has never been hungry enough for me to take tesserae, and I never wondered why the system was set up the way it is. If I ever did think about it, I guess I just assumed it was because nothing comes free in the districts, but Maysilee's idea does make sense. People in the Seam don't hate my family because my dad is their boss. It's because I don't have to take tesserae.

"And how are you planning to tell them that?" I finally ask. "You know they won't show anything that makes them look bad."

Maysilee shrugs. "For starters, I was thinking that the four of us could be allies."

I actually laugh out loud before I realize that she's serious.

"Um…" I say, trying to keep a straight face as she glowers. "I don't think Bowen's going to go for that. And I'm not sure I like the idea of alliances, either. It'll just make it worse when we have to turn on each other."

Maysilee's glare melts into a smile.

"Now who's being optimistic?" she teases. When I look confused, her smile widens. "Do you honestly think we'll survive long enough to turn on each other?"

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you so much for the follows, favs and lovely reviews! If you have a moment, I'd love to hear what you think.


	6. Chapter 6

6

My conversation with Maysilee doesn't exactly settle my mind, but I somehow manage to fall asleep a few hours before dawn. I'm still exhausted when an attendant wakes me for breakfast.

"Can't I eat in here?" I moan, dragging a pillow over my head.

The attendant doesn't answer. I look over to see him shaking his head and pointing at the clothes he's laid out for me. There's a red shirt and a pair of black pants. They look like clothes you could move around in, which is good, because we start our training today.

"Thanks," I mutter. The attendant nods and leaves.

I accidentally fall asleep again and wake up in a panic fifteen minutes later. In my rush to get ready, I mess up the settings on the fancy shower, so when I finally arrive at breakfast, I'm shivering and I smell like flowers. Just how I want to turn up to my first day of training.

I expect to be told off for my lateness, but when I walk into the dining area, Venetia is already busy telling Maysilee off for something else.

"You're not to speak to them under _any_ circumstances," she snaps, rounding off a rant that looks like it's been going on for a while.

"Not speak to who?" I ask.

"Whom," Venetia corrects crankily. "Don't speak to the Avoxes. And thank you for joining us."

"What are Avoxes?" I press, ignoring the barb.

Venetia gives a long-suffering sigh and I swallow a grin.

"That was an Avox in your room this morning," Larvina says. "They're traitors who have had their tongues cut so they can't speak. Don't talk to them unless you're giving them an order."

She says it all so matter-of-factly. Like it's normal to cut out people's tongues and force them to wait on you. I guess there are some things the Capitol doesn't let go to waste.

I'm not feeling very hungry, but I force myself to eat anyway. It's going to be a long day, and I want to pack on as many pounds as I can before the arena. Not that it's going to make any difference in the long run, but at least it might make my death look less pathetic. Anyway, when we do our interviews, I want Mom to see that I've been eating right.

"You start your training today," Larvina says, like we don't already know. "Can any of you do anything?"

We look at each other, afraid someone else is about to reveal some secret skill with knives or a bow. No one does.

Then Bowen mumbles, "Do we have to talk about this in front of each other?"

"I can mentor you separately if you like."

"Don't worry, Cluff," I say. "We all know your talent is holding people down while other people hit them."

Bowen curls his left hand into a ring and thrusts the first two fingers of his right hand through it. It's a rude gesture in Twelve, but Venetia doesn't seem to know that, and Larvina doesn't seem to care.

"I'll arrange private mentoring sessions for any of you that want them," she says. "For the next few days of training, my advice is to pick a few skills and focus on them. Bowen, you might be able to handle a sword – see how it feels. You other three should stick to long-range weapons: bows, slingshots, blowguns – weapons that are lightweight and don't bring you too close to your opponent. It's also worth training with a knife or another light, short-range weapon, just in case it comes to that.

"Do not, under any circumstances, ignore survival training. Most tributes die from exposure, thirst or hunger. Those skills are more likely to keep you alive than any weapon."

We're all staring at her, slack-jawed, as she pops out her teeth and goes back to slurping porridge. I want to ask her about a hundred questions, but I can't get my thoughts in order. Before I can try, Venetia is herding us into the elevator.

As we take the stomach-lurching plunge through twelve stories, Maysilee turns to me with a puzzled frown.

"Why do you smell like roses?"

* * *

Ten years of getting bullied at school has made me a little anxious about tribute training. At least back home, the kids in my class weren't actually trying to kill me. But the tributes pretty much ignore each other – except for the Careers, of course, who are just as chummy as they were at the parade.

Bowen splits off right away to do sword training. I look around at the stations and head for knife throwing. Maysilee and Twylah trail after me.

A trainer shows us proper gripping and throwing techniques. My aim isn't great, but it's better than Maysilee's or Twylah's, and I manage to hit the dummy most of the time. My trainer suggests that I move on to close-range knife fighting, and I head over to that station without the girls.

The trainer here tells me to think of the knife as an extension of my arm, and shows me the best places to slash a person. I'm actually not too bad at this. Years of being outnumbered in schoolyard fights have made me pretty quick on my feet. I'm starting to feel more confident when a shadow falls over me.

It's Aetius Powell. He smirks down at me, massive arms folded across his barrel chest. A few other Careers stand behind him, snickering.

"So you're the kid who supposedly gave me a black eye," he says. His bruise is fading. I wonder if he gave it to himself before he even left District 2.

"Right," I say, plastering a sickly grin on my face. "Sorry about that. Boys will be boys and all."

Aetius looks surprised for a moment before he breaks into a smile. "I guess we'll have to wait for the arena to have our rematch."

My guts turn cold and slippery. I force myself to keep grinning.

"May the odds be ever in your favor," I croak.

Aetius actually laughs at that. He claps me on the shoulder and somehow I keep my knees from buckling. Then he turns and walks away, trailed by his friends. I let out a shaky breath and go back to practicing with my knife.

Following Larvina's advice, I move on to fire-starting next. I still haven't produced a spark when we're called to lunch.

We file into a big room filled with tables and food carts. Most tributes sit on their own or in pairs, but the Careers push two tables together and settle into a loud pack. I notice Bowen lurking on the edge of their circle, searching for a way in. His instinct to suck up to the strongest people he can find clashes with the fact that the Careers want nothing to do with him. I almost smile.

I've barely sat down when Maysilee and Twylah plonk themselves across from me without an invitation.

"We're doing edible plants after lunch," Maysilee announces, like I care. "You should come with us."

"No thanks."

Maysilee rolls her eyes. "Suit yourself. But Twylah knows about plants. She could help you."

I look at Twylah, whose nose is about two inches from her plate. The bits of her face that I can see are blushing.

"Okay," I say, more because I've realized I have no idea how to get food in the arena than anything else. "Maybe I will."

"Hey."

All three of us turn to see the short boy from Eleven – Raize, I remember – pull out a chair at our table and sit down.

I glance at Maysilee, but she looks just as baffled as I am. Without waiting for a response, Raize tucks into his meal.

"What do you want?" I demand.

Raize grins.

"Nothing. Y'all just look like more fun than my crew." He jerks his thumb over his shoulder, where the other tributes from Eleven are eating in silence.

"I'm Raize."

I frown at him. "I know."

"I'm Maysilee," Maysilee breaks in, shooting me a look. "This is Twylah. And that bundle of joy is Haymitch."

Raize shakes hands with Maysilee and Twylah, then jerks his chin at me.

"Glad to meet you. Especially the fella who had the rocks to punch a Career on his first day." He winks at me, and I can tell he knows that's not what happened.

"Yeah, it's made me a lot of friends," I say, waving at our table. The gesture loses some impact since most of the seats are now full. Raize laughs anyway.

"Well, the Hunger Games are all about the lasting friendships," he says, and it's my turn to laugh.

"So did y'all know each other back home?" he asks.

Maysilee shakes her head. "We all went to school together, but we're not in the same year."

"School, huh?" Raize scoffs, but it's a friendly sound. "I never seen those fools before in my life," he adds, nodding at his fellow tributes. "My family works the root fields – potatoes, carrots, turnips – that sort of thing. Those three work in the orchards, clear on the other side of the district."

"Is Eleven very big?" Maysilee asks.

"Like you wouldn't believe. What do your folks do?"

Twylah and I tell him about the mines – Twylah surprising me by actually speaking for once. Maysilee talks about her family's sweet shop, which Raize finds hilarious for some reason. When lunch is over, he follows us to the edible plant station.

The Gamemakers have come in during our lunch break, and are sitting in a sort of balcony overlooking the whole room. I watch them for a while, but they don't seem to be taking notes or anything. Some of them aren't even looking at us. I turn my attention back to the plants.

Maysilee was right about Twylah knowing things – she even manages to impress the instructor by explaining the subtle differences between a poisonous plant and its edible mimic. We spend most of the afternoon there, until I mention my failure at the fire-starting station.

Raize grins. I'm starting to see that as his default expression.

"I can do that," he says. "Come on."

Twylah manages a flame first, followed by Maysilee. The trainer eventually gives up on me, but Raize sticks with it until I finally manage to get a few twigs burning. Then it's the end of the day and Venetia comes to take us back to our rooms.

Larvina grills us about training – what we did, who we talked to, what we're going to try tomorrow – all through dinner. When I finally fall into bed, I only have a few seconds to imagine I'm holding Marlys before I fall into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

The next day is a lot like the first. I decide to spend the morning trying to pick up more combat skills. I do pretty well at hand-to-hand, and then terribly at archery.

Maysilee, Twylah and Raize sit with me at lunch again and I don't tell them to leave. Raize tells us about this time he found a mockingjay that still had enough jabberjay in it to mimic human speech, and how he trained it to say embarrassing things about his brothers. It would perch in trees by their field and sing, "Torrent has one testicle" and "Porto pees the bed" all day long, until a Peacekeeper shot it for being a nuisance.

"I cried when they shot that bird, man," he admits. "Tor and Porto cried too, but I think that was from relief."

"I had a pet once," Twylah pipes up. "A snail. I called him Scooter."

This cracks Raize up, which cracks Maysilee up. Twylah smiles and blushes.

In the afternoon, I practice some more knife drills before moving on to snares. The instructor shows us how to make a trap to catch the legs of small animals and tighten so they can't escape. I work on this until I'm sure I've got it.

Toward the end of the day, a dark-skinned girl from Four wanders over to the snare station looking bored. Raize and I watch her from the corners of our eyes, but she doesn't seem interested in us. She grabs some string and twists it around for a few seconds. When it falls from her hands, I see she's made a net.

Raize stops shooting her sly looks and stares openly.

"How did you do that?"

She looks surprised. Without a word, she takes another length of string and demonstrates the basic knot she's using. Even the instructor stops to watch.

Raize and I both try to copy the girl's ties exactly, but she has to stop and correct us a few times. It feels weird taking help from a Career, but I think I'm finally getting the hang of the knots when a longhaired boy from One calls over to her.

"Shanty, what are you doing with those losers?"

Shanty tosses her hair and smirks. "Aw, come on, Brocade – it's no fun if they can't fight back."

I feel bile rise in my throat, and I'm about to throw my net in her face and tell her where she can stick it, but Raize cuts in before I get the chance.

"Show me that part again where you double it back?"

Shanty points out where he's gone wrong and explains how to fix it. After a moment, I start following along.

It doesn't matter why she's helping us, I decide. I'll wait until we're in the arena to throw my net back in her face. We'll see who's laughing then.


	7. Chapter 7

7

"This afternoon, you're going to be individually evaluated by the Gamemakers," Larvina announces the next morning at breakfast. By now, we're all used to the way she begins really good advice by saying something obvious, so we stop eating to listen. "Your individual assessments are the time to show off everything you can do. They will have seen forty-four other tributes by the time they get to you, and it's likely they'll be tired and bored. Make them pay attention."

We're all looking a little green by the time we step into the elevator. I was planning to do some knife-work in my assessment, but that won't exactly be thrilling after they've seen forty-four other tributes do it better.

I spend most of the morning at the knife station, practicing blade-to-blade with a trainer. He tells me I'm not bad, but I know I'm not nearly good enough to impress the Gamemakers.

Feeling desperate, I go back to the snare station. This late in training, I'm the only one here.

"Can you teach me something… really good?" I ask the instructor under my breath. "Something no one else will know how to do?" She looks sorry for me and I grit my teeth.

She tries to show me an advanced snare, but it's way beyond my pathetic abilities, and I just end up with a big knot.

"Why don't you try the net again?" she murmurs as she helps me untangle my fingers. "They won't expect someone from District 12 to be able to do that."

So I practice making nets until lunch. When they call us for the meal, I return my length of twine to the station, but the instructor hands it back to me.

"You take it to keep practicing. You'll be waiting for a while."

She glances up at the empty Gamemaker balcony and gives my hand a quick squeeze.

I hide my surprise as I turn to file out with the other tributes. She's only being nice to me because I'm about to be famous, I decide. I'm sure she'll be cheering as loud as anyone when I die.

Maysilee, Raize, Twylah and I all sit together again, but we don't talk much. I eat as much as I can, then sit fiddling with the net. Raize watches me in silence.

One by one, tributes are called back into the training room for their evaluations. Once the Careers from One and Two have gone, the lunchroom gets a lot quieter. When the last tribute from Four leaves, it's nearly silent.

"What are you going to show them, Twylah?" Maysilee asks.

"The different plants I know, I guess," Twylah mumbles. "But what if it's an arena without any plants?"

"There'll be plants," Raize says, his eyes on my hands as they twist the string. "Where there's water, there's plants, and there has to be water, or the Games would be over in a couple days."

I glance up and see Twylah's shoulders relax. Maysilee is beaming at Raize, but he doesn't notice.

"What about you, Maysilee?" I ask.

She shrugs. "I've gotten pretty good with a blowgun in the last couple days. I guess all those years shooting spitballs at Donel Mellark finally paid off."

"That your boyfriend?" Raize asks.

Maysilee laughs a little hysterically. "No! No, definitely not. He likes my friend Elsie."

"And you, Raize?"

Raize shrugs. I wait for an answer, but he doesn't say anything.

A sickening thought comes to me suddenly, and my hands freeze on my net.

We don't actually know anything about Raize. I haven't seen him do that well at any of the stations, except maybe fire starting – what if he's been hiding his real talents? That would be a good strategy. And palling around with us, learning all of our strengths and weaknesses – that's an even better one.

Raize is looking at me now, and I fumble with the twine, shakily undoing the knots I've made.

What if Raize has been allied with the other tributes from Eleven all along? What if they agreed to have Raize buddy up to us so they'd know how to defeat us in the arena? We're hardly the ones to beat, but wiping out an entire district is bound to get attention and sponsors, even if it's just District 12.

Then Raize asks, "What about you?"

He sounds so casual. Hairs stand up along the back of my neck. I tilt my face closer to my net so I don't have to look at him.

"Not sure yet," I mumble. "Maybe I'll light a fire."

Raize snorts, and I hope he understands that I'm onto him. Maybe I can make him think that I've been hiding my strengths, too.

The tributes have been trickling out this whole time. Now we're through with Seven. Now Eight. Nine. Ten.

Raize's name is called and he stands up.

"Probably won't talk to y'all again before the Cornucopia," he says, looking down at us. "You take care."

"May the odds be ever in your favor," Maysilee jokes with a little smile.

Raize gives her a weak version of his usual grin, then waves and leaves the room.

After Raize, the other boy from Eleven goes, then the two girls, one after another. Then Bowen. And then it's me.

"See you upstairs," I mutter at the girls. I shove my net into my pocket and head into the training room.

* * *

Larvina was right about one thing: the Gamemakers are completely bored. I'm pretty sure a few of them are also completely drunk. One of them is actually asleep.

I can see the remains of what was probably an incredible feast, but is now stacks of dirty dishes, a stained tablecloth, dozens of empty bottles and the picked-over carcass of a giant bird.

I clear my throat and a few of them glance at me. One of them nods to tell me it's okay to start.

I walk over to the knife station and pick out a couple of the blades I've gotten most familiar with. I look up at the Gamemakers again, but the one who nodded at me is talking to someone else now and doesn't notice.

"Excuse me," I say. My voice cracks and I feel my face burn. For some reason, this feels like the ultimate humiliation. My district is a joke, my parade costume an embarrassment, and even the people in the Capitol are bored of watching our tributes die. And now even the Gamemakers can't take five minutes to watch me throw some knives?

Fury rises up in my belly like a snake and I hear the words coming out of my mouth before I've decided to say them.

"Hey!" I shout it loud enough that the sleeping Gamemaker jerks awake. "I'm Haymitch Abernathy. District 12. Out of everyone in this room, I'm the only one who's going to be dead in a few days, so I think I'm kind of the most interesting person here, don't you?"

They laugh. They actually laugh at me, like I made a funny joke. And my death is the punch line.

I want to shout some more, but they're all sitting up and looking at me now, so I wrestle my temper under control. My hands are shaking too badly to throw knives, so I start with the close-range stuff, slashing at one of the practice dummies. It's not that impressive since the dummy can't fight back, but I think my footwork's not bad, and I manage to hit all the lines that indicate major arteries.

Once I've calmed down a little, I throw a couple of knives. The first one goes wide, but the second one lodges in the dummy's groin. I was aiming for its throat, but the Gamemakers think this is another grand joke, and some of them actually applaud. One of them says I can go, and I give a mocking bow.

Inside the elevator, I slump forward, pressing my hands against the cool metal walls. It's over. And I didn't do half bad.

Of course, the next time I have to prove my knife skills, my opponent will be moving, they'll be armed, and they'll be trying to kill me.

* * *

Dinner is served as soon as Twylah comes up from her evaluation. Venetia lets us take our plates in front of the television, where they're getting ready to broadcast our scores.

They show a picture of the tribute first, then their score out of twelve, along with their name. As always, the Careers sweep eights, nines and tens. The boy from District 3 with the crippled hand, whose name is Bot, gets a two. Everyone else is somewhere in the middle, averaging around a five. Raize gets a six. Then it's our turn.

Bowen gets a four. His face turns gray, and I almost feel sorry for him. All those years shoving smaller kids' faces in the dirt didn't really prepare him for a fight to the death.

Then my picture appears and I catch my breath.

Seven. Seven!

I let out a huge sigh, slumping back in my chair in relief. Larvina is congratulating me, but I barely hear her.

A seven! I guess I got the Gamemakers' attention, after all.

Maysilee pulls down a six.

Twylah manages a five.

That seems to be the last straw for Bowen, who storms out of the room without a word. We hear his door slam a moment later. Larvina sighs and wheels after him.

Oblivious as ever, Venetia squeals with excitement.

"Well done, everybody! A seven!" She says it like my score is something we all achieved together. "Maybe I'll get to meet with some decent sponsors this year."

My mouth falls open, but before I can spit out a retort, she's shooing us toward our rooms.

"Lots of rest tonight! Your interviews are tomorrow and you must look your very best!"

For once, Venetia's not just being shallow. Everyone knows that sponsors favor good-looking tributes. That doesn't matter so much for the Careers, but for us, it could make a big difference. Not that I _want_ sponsors – rich Capitol scum that bet on us like we're dogs in a fighting ring. Still. It would be nice to think that I was a dog with a fighting chance.

I study my face in the bathroom mirror. I look a lot like everyone else in the Seam: black hair, gray eyes, light brown skin and scrawny. My cheekbones stick out a lot. So do my ears, but they're usually hidden by my hair. I picture beady-eyed Maysilee, gangly Twylah and snub-nosed Bowen. Not one of us would win a beauty contest. It's ridiculous that this is even a factor of the Games, but it is. It's all about the show. And tomorrow evening, we'll be center stage for the first time.


	8. Chapter 8

8

There's no training the next day. Instead, Venetia and Larvina take turns coaching us for our live interviews with Caesar Flickerman.

My morning begins with two hours of Venetia working on my "presentation." To say it's awful is an understatement. On the bright side, Venetia seems almost as miserable as I am.

She complains about the way I sit (I slouch), the way I hold my face (I scowl) and the way I walk (I drag my feet). Pretty soon she's aggravating me so much that I start chewing my nails, which I haven't done since I was about Vernie's age. Venetia slaps my hand away from my mouth and it takes everything I've got not to sock her.

Finally, she stomps off in a huff. I slouch further in my chair and close my eyes, smug to have defeated her.

After a while, I hear Venetia's heels clacking up the hallway. Her shoes stop right in front of me, and I crack an eyelid. She's glaring down at me, clutching something yellow and lacey in her pink hand.

She hauls me to my feet and starts wrapping the lacey thing around my waist. I'm too bewildered to fight back until I realize that it's some sort of ladies' underwear. And that it's still warm.

"Get off me!" I yelp. I try to pull away, but Venetia has me by the laces of her underwear, and my struggling just pulls them tighter. She cinches me up with a grim look in her eyes, then lets me go.

"There," she says, winded but triumphant. "Just try to slouch in _that_."

I stare at her, stunned and mortified, but she doesn't take long to gloat. She pushes me back into my chair, and I find out that she's right. I can't slouch in this. I can barely even breathe. I wonder if Venetia's so cranky all the time because she's wearing one of these.

We spend more time than seems possible making sure I can cross my legs in a way that's "masculine but not slovenly." After what feels like a million years, our two hours are up.

"Oh, we didn't even get started on your face," Venetia frets.

"I swear I'll smile," I growl. "Just get this thing off of me before someone sees."

Venetia smirks, but she does help untie me. As soon as I'm free, I toss the damned yellow thing away. Bowen walks into the room an instant later and I try to stop blushing.

"Larvina wants you," he mutters, then slouches right down in my chair, legs splayed. Venetia throws up her hands and I make a beeline for the door before she tries to force Bowen into her underwear.

Larvina is waiting for me in her private sitting room. She's in her wheelchair, her hands tangled in an arthritic knot on her lap. For a short, pointless moment, I wonder if I'll look this bad when I'm 62. I have to remind myself that I'll never be that old.

"Who do you love back home?" Larvina asks as soon as I sit down.

"What?" I snap. "Why?"

Larvina raises her eyebrows, waiting for an answer.

I scowl, but she's given us good advice so far, and I figure I sort of owe her.

"My parents," I finally grumble. "My little brother. My girl."

"What would they tell me about you?"

"Why?" This time, I'm genuinely confused.

Larvina sighs.

"I'm trying to figure out what's likeable about you. So far, you haven't given me much to work with."

She's right, I guess. I've been following her instructions for training and things, but I've been pretty cold to her since she told me that I'd die fast back on the train. I'm funny like that.

I try to think about what Mom, Dad, Vernie and Marlys would say they like about me. I remember what Marlys said about how I make her feel like our lives make sense, but I'm not sure exactly what that means to me, and it won't mean anything to the audience.

"I guess… I'm funny?" I offer after a while. "My dad calls me a smartass."

"Cocky," Larvina sums up with a nod. "We can work with that. It will build on your reputation from the parade."

"You mean the thing with Aetius Powell?" I scoff. "You don't think anyone actually believes that goat shit?"

"They believe whatever the commentators tell them to believe."

She flips through some cards while I try to wrap my head around that.

"Let's try a few questions. What has impressed you most about the Capitol?"

"The people," I say immediately. "I didn't even know there were that many colors of skin dye."

Larvina's lips tighten over her fake teeth, and I can't tell if she's trying not to smile or frown.

"What would you say your chances are of winning this year's Hunger Games?"

"Better than my chances of winning last year's."

This time, Larvina lets out a snort.

"Who do you think will be the biggest threat inside the arena?"

"Ooh, a tough one. I'd say the tributes from One, Two and Four look pretty strong, considering they _definitely_ didn't train before the reaping."

Larvina gives me a sharp look. "Don't do that."

"Don't do what?"

"Don't imply that there's been cheating. That the Games aren't completely fair. It will make the audience uncomfortable, and it makes you look like a poor sport."

I gape at her.

"Well, I wouldn't want to hurt the precious Capitol's feelings," I spit. "And who would ever think that the Games aren't fair? Just look at me. Look at that kid…" I fumble for the name, "Bot, from Three. Look at Aetius Powell. I'd say it's even money on the lot of us, wouldn't you?"

Larvina looks bored by my outburst. "Life isn't fair, boy," she says. "Why should death be?"

We keep going with the interview questions for about an hour, but I only offer one-word answers and Larvina finally gives up in disgust.

"One last piece of advice," she says. I pause with my hand on the door, not bothering to turn around. "Change your attitude before tonight. At this moment, you have better odds than any tribute I've mentored in the last ten years. Don't squander it."

I hesitate, chewing on all the things I want to shout at her. But in the end, none of this is her fault. She's just trying to help me, even if there's no point. After another moment, I swallow my anger and walk away.

* * *

Midway through the afternoon, we're sent to our prep teams to get made up for the cameras. It's not quite as awful as last time, and Dim, Dam and Dum only make me wear a little makeup.

"What, no coal dust?" I joke. Either they don't get it, or they're still sore about my crack before the parade. Talk about poor sports. I'm the one who's been sentenced to death, but I still have to make nice and suck up to the sponsors.

Once the preps have made me up, they put me in a stiff, black suit with a high collar and narrow legs. Lush doesn't even bother showing up.

I'm barely out of prep before we're forced into single file and paraded out on stage in front of the screaming mob.

The bright lights dazzle my eyes, and it's a few moments before I can take anything in. The stage is dizzyingly vast. Giant television screens cover the back wall so that the crowds in the streets can see us up close.

I catch a glimpse of Caesar Flickerman as we file across the stage. His hair is dark green, and he's wearing the same sparkling blue suit he wears every year. He calls out something to the audience and they answer with a deafening laugh.

Bowen stops in front of me and I realize that I'll be sitting in the last chair in the row of tributes. Meaning that my interview will be the last one.

If the Gamemakers were bored by the time they got to my evaluation, the broadcast audience is going to be unconscious. The crowds in the streets will probably go home before Caesar even gets to me.

We sit down, and Caesar manages to quiet the audience.

"We've got a lot of promising tributes to meet tonight! Let's get started… with _Filigree_!"

The audience gives a cheer that only gets louder as the first tribute from One steps forward. She's an absolute giant – even taller than Twylah, and at least twice as broad. Her stylist has clearly embraced her look – there is nothing feminine about her outfit. Every sharp, angular line of her dress spells "killing machine."

Caeser starts the interview by asking Filigree what she thinks about the Quarter Quell having one hundred percent more tributes than usual.

"I'm excited," she tells him. Her voice is deep and sort of raspy. I guess it might be sexy if she didn't look like she could crush me with one hand. "Back home, our victors compare how many kills they made in their arenas. I'll be able to beat them all."

"Oh-ho, will you ever!" Caesar laughs. The audience roars its approval.

I wonder what we look like back in Twelve. Lots of people tend to stay out late to watch the interviews on the big screen in the square. Somehow it seems better than watching them at home. Sometimes the tributes' families come. Other times, they prefer to be left alone. Wherever my family is, I hope Marlys is with them.

The interviews go on. It's much worse than waiting for my evaluation with the Gamemakers. At least then there were no cameras, and I could fidget with my net. At least then I didn't have to watch all the other tributes do better than me.

The Careers seem to be competing for the title of Most Brutal. Caesar and the audience eat it up. Most of the other tributes go for different methods. One by one, they try to convince the audience that they're cunning or clever or sexy or bubbly or confident.

I had kind of hoped that I could use the interviews to pick up some hints about the strengths of my fellow tributes, but the Careers' strengths are obvious, and listening to the others just makes me feel bad for wishing them all dead. I try to tune out the conversations as I let my eyes roam the crowd.

The stylists, mentors and escorts are in raised seating to the left of the stage. A couple cameramen are there to catch the stylists' reactions whenever Caesar praises their designs. Lush is sitting front and center. I wonder if he skipped my prep session so he could snag a good seat – I'm guessing he's not important enough to rate one otherwise.

To the right of the stage, the Gamemakers have a high balcony to themselves and a few cameramen of their own. Directly in front of the stage, there's seating for select audience members – probably rich sponsors. Beyond them, the lights of the Capitol sparkle on the brightly colored faces of thousands of citizens.

Every so often, smaller screens around the stage will cut to people in the crowd. When they see themselves onstage, they jump up and down and wave at the cameras, their mouths stretched in silent, exuberant screams. They look like lunatics.

Some of them hold signs that they shake in front of the camera lenses, making them nearly impossible to read. I catch a few slogans anyway. "District 2 is Number 1!" "Brocade for Victor!" A group of boys about my age are waving a heart-shaped photo of Shibori from District 8 with the words "SHIBORI STITCH UP MY HEART." When they notice themselves on the screen, they pucker up at the camera, making kissing faces. Nauseated, I turn away.

But as the interviews drag on, I find my eyes drifting back to those screens more and more. Lots of people have painted the numbers of their favorite districts on their faces. A few are wearing cowboy hats to show their support for District 10. A pack of teenage girls have woven their hair into tiny braids to look like Shanty.

It's weird. I knew that people in the Capitol were fans of the Games, but it never occurred to me that they were also fans of the tributes. Sure, they bet on the results and sponsor their favorites, but those girls wanting to look like Shanty or the boys wanting a kiss from Shibori… we don't see stuff like that in Twelve.

I always thought that people in the Capitol liked the Games because they liked watching us die. For the first time, I start to wonder if what they really like is watching one of us live.

In the districts, we're constantly reminded that the Games are a punishment for our grandparents' rebellion. As I watch these people cheer for their favorite tributes, I start to realize that to them, the Games are just entertainment. They don't seem to care about the Dark Days any more than I do. They don't want to see us die because they think it's justice. They want to see us die because they think it's _fun_.

The more I think about it, the angrier I get. These Capitol people are so damned smug. Living their easy, overfed, spoiled lives while we have to struggle every single day. While we slave away for their comfort, they have nothing better to do than dye themselves different colors and gossip about restaurants and parties. They're so twisted that they can watch starving children fight to the death and think it's a good show. And they're so stupid that they think _we're_ uncivilized.

I want to scream at them. I want to punch Caesar Flickerman in his gleaming teeth and watch the blood turn his green lips red. I want to throw everyone in the Capitol into an arena and see how they like it.

Instead, I slouch down in my chair and scowl. My heart is thundering in my chest, but I try to make myself look bored. I was dead the minute Venetia pulled my name out of the reaping bowl. So there's no reason to keep playing their games.

I grind my teeth through the rest of the interviews. Amazingly, the crowd doesn't seem to be losing interest at all – they're still laughing at all of Caesar's lame jokes and cheering for each tribute.

I perk up a little when Raize takes the chair. As he hints about a secret strategy that he's sure will help him win, I start grinding my teeth again. I catch his eye as he returns to his seat, but he doesn't even have the decency to look ashamed. If anything, he looks confused. Yeah, right. I already know he's a good actor.

Twylah's up next. She's blushing and stuttering, and Caesar has to work to get an audible answer out of her. When he finally does, she plays the district hick, delighted by the wonders of the Capitol. Since she can barely string a sentence together, I'd say the audience is convinced.

Maysilee plays it sweet. She talks about life back in Twelve, how much she loves her parents and twin sister, how hard it is for most people to get by, how she wants to give back to the district by becoming a schoolteacher, or maybe a midwife. Caesar tries to get her to talk about her strategy for the Games, but she sticks to her message. For all the good it will do her.

"Just think," she concludes, looking earnestly out at the crowd, "how wonderful Panem could be if we all just helped each other out a little more. Isn't that the kind of world we all want our children to live in?"

The bell rings to mark the end of her interview and the crowd gives half-hearted applause. No one seems to know how to handle a tribute calling for peace and unity the night before she's supposed to kill 47 people. Then Caesar turns it into a joke by telling her that she's "a tribute to her district," and the audience laughs, comfortable again.

Bowen's apparently been told to play it mysterious. He hints that he was holding back at his evaluation so the other tributes won't see him coming. Of course, if that was actually true, he shouldn't be spilling the beans now. Caesar seems to believe him, though, and I guess the audience is dumb enough to do the same.

My palms started sweating when they called the first tribute from Eleven. Now that it's almost my turn, I'm pretty sure I've soaked through my shirt, and my body keeps flashing hot and cold. I try to keep my expression bored as Caesar calls me forward.

We shake hands and Caesar manages to act like I haven't just slimed all over him.

"Our last tribute of the night," he tells the audience, like they can't see for themselves. "But I'll bet we saved the best for last, eh, Haymitch?"

The audience laughs. When I don't respond, Caesar moves on quickly.

"So, Haymitch. I know we're all _dying_ to hear. How exactly did you get that bruise we saw during the tribute parade?"

"I punched a wall," I tell him flatly.

"That's the official story, is it?" Caesar chortles. He tips a wink to the audience and they laugh again. "Well, I'm sure Aetius won't argue with you! Not again, anyway!"

I weigh my options. Play along and maybe convince someone to sponsor me, or throw it back in their faces. Being me, it's not much of a choice.

"Come on, Caesar," I say, smirking right back at him. "You know we're not allowed to fight outside the arena. Can't have us killing each other unless everyone has a front row seat."

The audience laughs without prompting from Caesar. I stare at them, annoyed.

"Very true," Caesar chuckles. "So tell me, Haymitch. What is the significance of your outfit tonight?"

The question throws me and I try not to show it.

"It's black."

"It's a hearse driver's uniform," Caesar tells me, his green eyebrows pulling together. "Did you know that?"

"No. I thought Lush was being original for once."

That gets a big laugh. I glance up at Lush and see several cameras trained on him. He's laughing along with the crowd, but he looks as if he'd gladly throttle me.

"I take it you weren't impressed by your parade costume?" Caesar asks, waving at Lush.

"I think the only person impressed by that thing was my girlfriend."

"You've got a special girl back home, have you?" Caesar asks, pouncing on the chance to tug some audience heartstrings.

"Yes."

"Did she come to see you after the reaping?"

I clench my jaw so hard that a muscle twitches in my cheek.

"Yes."

"And what did she say to you then?"

The audience is silent. You could hear a pin drop on the stage. I know exactly what they want, and I'm not going to give it to them.

"She made me promise not to fool around with any Capitol girls."

Caesar looks blank. I shrug.

"Women, right?"

The audience is laughing again, but I've made them nervous. The idea of a tribute – from District 12, no less – messing around with their daughters apparently isn't a comfortable one.

Caesar recovers quickly. "Well, you seem like the loyal type," he assures me.

I look at one of the cameras crowding the stage, hoping I've caught the right one. That I'm looking through the lens and straight at Marlys.

"Until the end."

Caesar seems to decide that this angle is too risky to keep up.

"Now, you seem like a clever fellow, Haymitch. Tell us, what's your strategy for the arena?"

I smirk at him. "Isn't it obvious? I'll do a comedy routine. Then I'll cut their throats while they're all laughing at me."

The audience guffaws and I turn my smirk on them. I hope that even one of them looks into my eyes and realizes that the only throats I want to cut are theirs.

If Caesar's one of those people, he doesn't show it. He grins at the audience and gestures to me as if to say, "what a joker."

"Well, we're reaching the end of our long night of Quarter Quell interviews," he tells us. The audience gives a disappointed groan.

"I know, I know," Caesar says, a hand pressed to his heart. "What say we finish it the same way we started, eh?" He turns back to me. "So, Haymitch, what do you think of the Games having one hundred percent more competitors than usual?"

It's the same thing he asked Filigree at the beginning of the night. It's still the dumbest question I've ever heard.

"I don't see that it makes much difference," I say. "They'll still be one hundred percent as stupid as usual, so I figure my odds will be roughly the same."

I don't get a cheer like Filigree did. Just another big laugh.

I can't believe I was nervous about this interview. The audience will swallow anything. I'm no longer surprised that people believe I beat up Aetius Powell. I could probably tell them that I despise them all and they'd think I was kidding.

We are just entertainment to them, I realize. Nothing we do or say can make us anything more than silly characters in the world's most exciting television show.

* * *

After the audience applauds me back to my seat, we all stand for the anthem, then file into the Training Center and up to our rooms.

"In case you were wondering, boy," Larvina says as we step off the elevator, "that was squandering it."

She doesn't bother looking disappointed. I guess she's stopped caring what I do. Probably smart.

Venetia announces that she has presents for all of us. I bite back a groan, sure it's going to be something useless or insulting, or both. But it's our district tokens.

I look closely at Dad's ring, but I can't see any sign that the Gamemakers have damaged it. I slide it onto my thumb, where it quickly warms to my skin.

When I look up, Maysilee is wearing a gold pin and helping Twylah tie a scrap of braided twine around her wrist. Bowen either doesn't have anything, or has already put it away.

"I couldn't be prouder of you," Larvina tells us. I'm pretty sure she doesn't mean me. "You've done everything you can to prepare for the arena. Tonight, get as much sleep as you can. Tomorrow morning, avoid the fighting at the Cornucopia. Run for whatever shelter you can see. Find water. Be smart. And remember that all the hearts in Twelve go with you."

It's a good speech. One I'm sure she gives all her tributes the night before they die.

Maysilee and Twylah want to hug Larvina and thank Venetia. I don't particularly want to do either, and Bowen and I go to our rooms in silence.

The idea of trying to sleep is ridiculous. One wall of my bedroom is a giant window, and I sit on the floor with my forehead resting against the cool glass. People are dancing in the streets. When I can't stand to watch them anymore, I turn my eyes to the sky. The lights of the Capitol have washed out the stars, but the moon is there – orange and crescent-shaped and just the same as the one that hangs over Twelve. I wonder if Marlys is awake tonight, looking up at the same one.

Someone taps on my door. I open my mouth to tell them to go away, but my throat is too tight to let the words out. They'll just have to get the message on their own.

After a few seconds, they knock again. And again.

I heave myself to my feet and stomp over to the door. When I wrench it open, I'm face to face with Maysilee.

"What do you want?" I growl.

Maysilee doesn't bat an eye at my foul mood. I've got to respect her for that, although at the moment it's damned annoying.

"The audience sure liked your interview," she says.

"They're idiots."

I turn and walk back to the window. Maysilee comes in and leans against the wall.

"You were making fun of them."

"Congratulations. You're not an idiot."

Maysilee frowns, her small eyes narrowed. Like she's trying to figure me out or something. Good luck to her.

"Do you actually think that will do you any good?" she finally asks.

I snort in disbelief. "Do _you_? Your little do-gooder routine? Fat lot of good that did you. Everyone in the Capitol will be sure to think of you the next time they toss a coin to a beggar. Oh, that's right – they won't. Because you're as good as dead, and no one cares what dead people say."

Maysilee flinches like I slapped her.

"That's a vile thing to say!"

"Well, it's the truth. Get over it."

Her face turns splotchy red, and I wonder if she's going to cry. When she speaks again, her voice is shaking.

"I'm sorry that you haven't accepted what's happening to us, Haymitch. I know that must make this harder for you. But don't blame me for doing what you can't. I had one chance to say something, so I said what was important to me. And you just made some stupid jokes."

We stand like that for a while longer, glowering at each other from opposite ends of the room. Then suddenly I'm just so damned weary, and picking a fight with Maysilee feels like the most pointless thing in the world.

I let my shoulders slump and run a hand over my face.

"Did you want something, Donner?"

"I came to see if you want to be allies," she snaps.

I stare at her. Then suddenly we're both laughing – a tired, slightly crazy sound.

"I'll pass," I say, still smiling so she knows it's nothing personal.

"We'd live longer with two of us."

"I'm not planning to live that long, anyway." Maysilee opens her mouth, probably for another lecture about sending messages, but I cut her off. "Besides, aren't you allies with Twylah?"

Maysilee's mouth closes with a snap and she blushes. "We'll live longer with three of us, then," she corrects herself, but I understand the slip. Even Maysilee doesn't think Twylah will last long in the arena. But she's partnering with her anyway. I think she's taking this whole "district unity" thing a little too far, but I don't feel like picking another fight, so I don't mention it.

"You take care of yourselves."

Maysilee chews on her next words for a while, mulling them over. Finally she says, "You too."

Then she's gone, and I sit back down to continue my vigil.

* * *

**A/N:** I'd love to hear what you think of the story so far!


	9. Chapter 9

9

I must drift off at some point, because morning comes impossibly soon. The Avox comes in to wake me, but he doesn't seem surprised to find me already up. He gives me a nod and leaves.

We don't linger over breakfast. As soon as we're done, Venetia shepherds us into the elevator. When we reach the ground floor, we're the only tributes in sight. Venetia puts us into separate cars and we pull out into the Capitol's streets.

There's an armed Peacekeeper in the car with me. I notice that the doors don't have handles on the inside, and try not to notice anything else.

It's not easy. My brain seems determined to notice everything – the color of the sky, the feeling of my hands resting on the soft fabric of the car seat, the way a bead of sweat is tickling between my shoulder blades, the way the sun reflects on the tall, glass buildings… It's like my body knows it's the last time I'll see or feel anything, and it's trying to make the most of every second.

It's the last thing I want to do. I am going to die. I don't want to lose my mind, as well.

The car takes me to a windowless hovercraft where I'm strapped in for the flight to the arena. A doctor injects me with something and I don't resist.

"Tracker," she says when I raise my eyebrows. "So we can locate you inside the arena." Of course. Can't have anyone dying off-screen.

I close my eyes and, since it seems like I have to think about something, I think about the arena.

Larvina said to get away from the Cornucopia, and I know she's right. That's where the Careers will make their first stand, and even promising tributes – which I'm not – have died in that first bloodbath. Trouble is, it's also where I need to be if I want any supplies or weapons.

I put the problem to one side and think about my next step. The smart move is to get as far from the action as possible. The Careers will take control of the Cornucopia as soon as the bloodbath is over, then fan out to start hunting. So the first thing I should do is put as much distance between them and me as I can. I've seen tributes try this method before, and sometimes it works for a while. But as tributes die off and the field narrows, the Gamemakers have ways of forcing them together. Don't want the Capitol audience to get bored. They might start a rebellion. I snort at the thought.

It's true that I won't be able to stay away from the fighting forever, if I even manage to escape it in the first place. With more tributes, though, it should take longer for the action to fizzle out. Maybe the Gamemakers will leave me alone long enough to… long enough to what? Find a way out of the arena?

I snort again. It's a ridiculous thought. There is no way out of the arena except in a box or wearing a crown. But there has to be an end to it.

I decide that will be my goal. To find the edge of the arena. I have no idea what will be there – probably just another fence. Still, it seems like a better goal than "don't die." More achievable, too.

When I leave the hovercraft, I'm already underground. A Peacekeeper takes me to a door with the number "12" on it and shows me inside. He closes the door and doesn't bother to lock it. Just like the car, there's no handle on my side anyway.

I look around. The walls are gray and it smells like paint. There's nothing in here but a metal chair and a clear, plastic tube that leads to the ceiling. I've watched enough Games to know that this is how I'll enter the arena.

I try to swallow but my throat is dry. There's no water in here, and it probably won't be easy to come by in the arena. What with the fence, most people in Twelve don't really get a lot of wilderness experience, but I know some things. Like how water runs downhill. If I see any sort of hill or rise, I decide, I'll run away from it.

The door opens and I flinch, but it's just one of the trainees I saw flitting around Lush back at the parade. He doesn't say much; just hands me the clothes I'll wear in the arena. I find myself holding a brown shirt, soft leather boots, brown pants and a pale green waterproof jacket. I get changed and the trainee leaves with my old clothes without a word. It's possible I'm not too popular with Lush's crowd at the moment.

I pace the room, waiting for whatever comes next. The arena is right above my head. I could be dead before the sun goes down tonight. I will be dead before it goes down many more times. I hope my family has already finished mourning me. I hope –

I jerk my mind away from the thought and focus on the next few hours. Avoid the Cornucopia. Run downhill to water. Find the edge of the arena.

"Launch in thirty seconds," a female voice says behind me. I whirl around, but I'm alone.

"Launch in ten seconds," she says, I guess twenty seconds later, though it feels like two.

What would happen if I just didn't get in the tube? Would they come in and force me? Shoot me on the spot? Does it really matter? My life is over, either way.

I've half-decided to give it a try, but when the voice starts counting down from five, I find myself rushing into the tube like my life depends on it.

"Four."

Avoid the Cornucopia.

"Three."

Run downhill to water.

"Two."

Find the edge of the arena.

"One."

The bottom of the tube moves under my feet and my knees almost buckle. I catch myself and force my muscles to tense. Once we're in the arena, we'll have sixty seconds to get our bearings before the Games begin. I plan to make the most of my minute.

The top of the tube breaks the surface, and the first thing I notice is the light. It's bright, but soft and sort of golden. The second thing I notice is the smell. It's wonderful, and for some reason it reminds me of home. I breathe deep and manage to pick out lavender, like Mom's ironing water. Also mint, like Marlys' breath when she's been chewing the stuff. I think of the Meadow back in Twelve and realize they must have the same flowers here – it smells just like that, too.

I see the other tributes gaping like moon brains. That snaps me out of my daze pretty fast. We're here to die, not enjoy the scenery. The good smells, the pretty field – it's all just part of a Gamemaker trap. I force myself to focus on what's important.

The Cornucopia is sitting in the middle of the circle of tributes. Packs of supplies are scattered around it, the biggest ones closet to the mouth of the Cornucopia. Beyond those are the weapons. My eyes fix on a display of bright knives just outside the Cornucopia. My hand twitches and I clench my fists.

I look to my right and spot Bowen, but I can't see Twylah or Maysilee. They must be on the other side of the Cornucopia. I tell myself that this is the last time I'm going to think about them.

I look around and see a snowy mountain in the distance. I know enough to see that it's farther away than it looks. Past the Cornucopia, a row of trees marks the edge of a forest. That looks pretty far away, too. Those are my only options, though – there's no shelter in the field.

Run downhill to water, I remember. I'll go with the forest. That will take me past the Cornucopia, and I wonder if I can grab something on my way. As the final seconds of the countdown tick away, I promise myself that I'll try.

As soon as the gong goes off, I'm sprinting for the Cornucopia. Any second I expect someone to tackle me to the ground or an arrow to burst through my chest, but I'm almost to the Cornucopia and no one's even hollered.

I know I should keep running, but the knives are only a few yards away. I leap over a metal box and wrench a long knife from the wall, then grab the nearest pack without slowing down.

On the other side of the Cornucopia, the tributes are still on their launch pads. I barrel between two of them, dodging arms that aren't even trying to grab me. I'm terrified, certain that I've missed something obvious, that I'm running straight into a trap that everyone has noticed but me. Why aren't they moving?

I'm nearly ten yards from the Cornucopia when the screaming starts. I don't look back.

As I get farther away, my ragged breath drowns out the sounds of metal on flesh. The screams follow me all the way to the edge of the woods.

My legs are shaking and my lungs are on fire. A few paces into the forest, I trip over a tree root and sprawl onto the ground. My hands sink deep into the mossy earth as I push myself up. I stagger for a few steps before falling into a steady trot that seems to be the fastest my legs will go right now. My breath is whistling through my lungs and my heart feels like it's about to burst. I'll be the only tribute ever to die of a heart attack.

I force myself to keep moving – sometimes at a jog, sometimes at a walk, but always away from the Cornucopia. As I catch my breath, I start to take stock of my surroundings.

The forest is just as beautiful as the field. The trees are covered in pale green leaves, and the ground is coated in dark green moss. Even the light is green where it filters through the branches and dapples the forest floor. Patches of bright flowers are scattered around. As I walk close to one of them, I catch the scent of lavender again. The smell makes me think of home, and I veer away. There's something sinister about that smell. Nothing in here should remind me of home.

The whole place looks like someone's best fantasy of what a forest should be, and I'm sure that to the Capitol audience, that's all it is. To me, it's the place where I'm going to die. Everything seems unnatural. The trees are all different breeds and different heights, evenly spaced in a way that I'm sure is manmade. Other things are more obvious. For example, even I know that evergreens don't grow fruit, but there one is, its dark, prickly branches drooping with bright red berries. Etter Seney's advice comes back to me: "Don't eat anything that you don't know what it is." He doesn't have to worry. I don't trust a thing in this arena.

It feels like I've been moving for hours when I hear the first cannon. The bloodbath must be over. Now they'll count the dead.

There's a low, leafy bush to my right and I let myself sink to the ground behind it, in case any other tributes have found their way out here.

My heartbeat slows as I count the cannons. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

It seems to go on forever, and for a moment I think it will. Then, just as suddenly as it started, it stops.

Eighteen. Eighteen tributes are dead.

In a normal year, I'd already be in the final eight. Crews from the Capitol would be rushing to Twelve to interview my family. The commentators would be saying how incredible it is for a District 12 tribute to survive so long.

But this isn't a normal year, and there are still thirty tributes left. My odds are worse than they'd be at the beginning of a normal Hunger Games.

Well, not quite that bad, I think, remembering the supplies I managed to grab at the Cornucopia. As my heart finally steadies, I turn to look over my haul.

I shoved the knife through the belt of my jacket while I was running, and I pull it out now. It's long – longer than the ones I was working with in the Training Center. Sharper, too. The grip is strong, and it feels good in my hand. I practice drawing it a few times and make sure it's positioned in a way that won't slice me if I fall.

I turn to the pack. It's made of the same waterproof material as my jacket. I open it to sort through the contents.

One waterproof sleeping bag. One box of matches. One ball of twine. Two packs of dried beef. Three packs of dried fruit. One small bottle of water.

I'm on the bottle almost without thinking. I take a few shallow swigs before I can force myself to put it away. There's already a scary empty space at the top of the bottle and I try not to think about how long it will last.

In spite of everything, I find myself feeling better. A pounding I hadn't even noticed has stopped throbbing in my temples and I feel less shaky. Now that my thirst has been seen to, my stomach starts to rumble, but I load everything back into my pack and start jogging again.

I'm a lot better off than I had hoped to be. I have food and water and a knife. I start to think that maybe I won't do so badly after all.

At that moment, the cannon sounds again.

* * *

A/N: Thanks so much for the lovely reviews! I know a lot of people missed seeing the Second Quarter Quell in the film. I hope I do it justice for you!


	10. Chapter 10

10

I keep moving through the afternoon. At first I try jogging, but my legs start shaking again and I have to slow to a walk. After several hours, the light in the forest starts turning orange, which I guess is what sunset looks like here. The cannon has sounded twice since the bloodbath ended.

I decide to take stock of my situation before finding a place to hide for the night. I should be pretty far away from the field by now, but it would be good to get my bearings, and I might be able to see if any other tributes have made it out this far. A smooth-barked tree nearby has some good climbing branches and I hoist myself into them.

I spiral upwards, clinging to the trunk and moving slower as the branches get thinner. Just when I don't think I can climb any farther without falling, my head breaks through the leaves.

I peer in the direction of the Cornucopia. All I can see are miles and miles of treetops, turning amber in the orangey light.

My heart leaps into my throat. Have I really come that far? It felt like a long way, but I didn't dare to hope it was more than seven or eight miles. I should at least be able to see the mountain.

That's what catches me. I can't see the mountain.

I turn on my branch, searching for it. When I find it, I nearly fall out of the tree. There's the mountain, all right. And there's the Cornucopia, not three miles from my perch.

I've been going the wrong way.

I'm not sure when I got turned around, but clearly I should have checked my direction long ago. Maybe I've been going in circles this whole time. It's a miracle I haven't run into anyone else, especially with all the noise I've been making. I didn't realize I needed to be quiet.

I sit on my branch, clutching the slippery bark with shaking fingers. How could I have been so stupid? So cocky? I actually thought I was doing well. My head start – wasted. For all I know, I'm a few yards away from the Career camp.

My eyes prickle and I scrub a rough hand over my face, forcing the tears back in. Sniveling like a baby won't get me anywhere. I made this mess, so now I have to figure a way out of it.

I need to keep moving. I'll check my position regularly from now on, making sure the mountain stays at my back. It will have to wait for tomorrow, though; trying to move in the dark when I could be surrounded by enemies would be even stupider than what I've already done.

Just when I think I can't feel any worse, it starts to rain.

I pull my hood up and start picking my way down the tree as the rain turns into a downpour. The branches are wet and I slip a couple times, but I think the sound of the rain drowns out any noises I make.

I look around for a good spot to spend the night. A little ways away is a cluster of trees surrounded by dense bushes. It looks a little too convenient. If there's not a Gamemaker trap in there, then there's probably another tribute.

A bit farther in the other direction, I spot a few low bushes. They don't offer quite as much cover, but they're a less obvious hiding place in case anyone decides to hunt at night.

The rain stops as suddenly as it started. The Gamemakers must have cooked it up – probably their way of wishing us sweet dreams. By making everything sodden right before we have to bed down in it.

I lay my sleeping bag under the bushes and crawl on top of it. I don't want to make the inside all soggy by getting in just yet. The branches of the bush scratch my face, but they're close together, and in the dark I think I'll be pretty hard to see.

My tongue feels like tree bark, and I allow myself a few more sips of water. The bottle is already half empty, and I haven't seen a single source of water all day. No streams, no ponds – nothing. It occurs to me that they put water in my pack because there isn't any in the arena. The thought should make me panic, but I'm too bone-tired and miserable about my stupid navigation mistake to get worked up about it now.

Without my thirst as a distraction, my stomach twists with hunger. I ease my bag open and pull out one strip of beef and a piece of dried fruit. I want to wolf them, but I force myself to eat them slowly, taking tiny bites and chewing them to mush before swallowing. It's a trick Mom taught us when we were kids and food was scarce. She made a game of it, and we'd compete to see who could make their meal last the longest. Dad always won.

I put everything back in my pack, then curl up with it wedged between my knees and chest. I keep my knife clutched in my right hand. In case.

For the first time, I notice how _loud_ the forest is. Leaves rustle in the wind. A few birds are still singing. Crickets play their creaking music. I'm sure it wasn't this loud when I was walking. Maybe that's the key to staying alive in this forest: noise means safety; silence means there's an enemy nearby. I don't look forward to testing that theory.

My eyelids have just started to droop when a blast of noise jerks me back to full alertness. My fingers tighten around my knife, but it's just the anthem blaring through the arena.

Between the branches, the sky lights up with the Capitol's seal. I hold my breath, waiting for the list of the fallen.

They start with District 2, which means all the tributes from One are still alive. A girl from Two is not. Three has lost Bot and a girl whose name I can't remember. Four has lost one of its boys. The faces appear one after another in an endless parade. They don't show Shibori from Eight, so she's still alive. So is Raize.

Suddenly, Bowen's face is staring down at me, outlined in white light. He blinks once and his image fades.

I stare at the empty sky, feeling shocked and angry, and surprised to be either. I'm still trying to catch my breath when Twylah's picture appears. Glowing white against the dark blue sky, she's almost pretty. She lowers her eyes and disappears forever.

The seal returns. The anthem plays. Silence.

Bowen and Twylah. I feel like I should do something, say something. The truth is I didn't know either of them very well. I didn't want to. Bowen was a bully and a moron, and Twylah was just a scared little kid. And now they're both dead. I try to figure out how that makes me feel, but there's no point, and it makes my head pound to think about it. I tighten my grip on the knife, squeeze myself into a smaller ball, and try to get some sleep.

* * *

By sunrise, the muscles in my legs have stiffened into rocks and I have to painfully massage the blood back into them before I can crawl out from my hiding place. I think I snatched a few minutes' sleep here and there, but I was too worried about someone sneaking up on me – or just plain tripping over me – to get any real rest.

I start the day by climbing my tree again to make sure I know where the mountain is. The sun turns its snowcapped tip from blue to orange as I take a few small sips of water and chew a piece of dried fruit into pulp. Then I'm on the move.

It's slower going now that I'm trying to be quiet. There's another short downpour shortly after sunrise, and I manage to jog for a bit while the rain drums on the leaves. The muscles in my legs scream in protest, but I push myself forward until the rain cuts off, just as abruptly as it did last night.

Midmorning, I scale another tree to check the position of the mountain. Still behind me.

I've just started climbing down when a snapping twig makes me freeze. Two figures appear below me. I shrink back against the tree.

Squinting through the leaves, I recognize Dolly and Beulah, the sisters from District 10. The taller one is holding a crossbow; the other clutches a chunk of wood like a club. Did they hear me rustling around in the tree? Are they hunting me right now?

The one with the stick pauses right underneath me. I could jump and land on top of her. If I'm lucky, I might even get my knife into her before she has time to throw me off.

My breath is suddenly deafening in the silence. I press a hand over my mouth to smother the sound.

I could do it. I could kill this girl from District 10. If I don't, someone else will. And if I do, I'm one step closer to safety.

A squirrel chatters nearby and the girl with the crossbow has an arrow flying almost before I see her move. She misses the squirrel, which skitters up a tree with an angry squeal, but I'm hit with a wave of relief.

I might be able to kill one sister, but not both. It's smarter to stay hidden until they move on.

"It was just a dumb squirrel, Dolly," the girl with the stick tells her sister. "Let's keep moving."

Dolly retrieves her arrow and they disappear into the woods.

* * *

Seeing two other tributes eager to spill my blood definitely changes my perspective. I spend the rest of the morning moving at a snail's pace, stopping every few minutes to listen out for the silence that could mean someone coming my way. All I hear are birds chirping and the quiet rustling of leaves.

By late afternoon, I'm jumping at my own shadow. I'm tense, I'm exhausted, and I'm nearly out of water. I promised myself I wouldn't have another sip until I'm actually dying of thirst, but my throat is so parched I'd swear it's about to start bleeding, and if it gets much worse than this, I don't want to know. My head is throbbing and it's a struggle to make my eyes focus on anything. I try climbing a tree and slip three times before I make it to the top.

When I find the mountain, I'm not surprised that I've been veering to the east again. I should keep moving, but I'm so tired and dizzy that I just lean against the trunk and let my eyes drift closed.

I must fall asleep, because when something moves near my head, I jerk backwards and nearly fall out of the tree.

It's just another squirrel. I watch in a daze as it scampers along my branch. It twitches its bushy tail and the sunlight sends sparks off its golden fur. Its little paws pull a leaf down to its mouth and it sucks up a few drops of trapped rainwater, watching me with huge, black eyes. Its long eyelashes droop in a slow, deliberate wink.

I glare at it. I know I'm probably delirious, but I don't like the look in that thing's eyes. There's a glint in them that seems nasty somehow. I take a weak swipe to shoo it away.

And almost fall out of the tree when the squirrel snaps at my fingers with a snarl.

It takes a run at me and I fumble for my knife. Before my clumsy fingers can find the handle, the squirrel leaps over my head and into another treetop. I stare after it, slack-jawed. One thing I know for sure: that squirrel didn't leave because it was afraid of me.

I add squirrels to the list of things that might kill me in here. It falls somewhere between an arrow through the throat and dropping dead from thirst.

I know I should keep moving, but it's hard to remember why. Did I seriously think I could reach the edge of the arena? Yeah, right. Even this high off the ground, I can't seen any sign of it. I know there must be an end to it somewhere, but I also know that I'm not going to reach it on two sips of stale water.

Maybe I could just die here. I could fall asleep in this tree and snap my neck on the way down. If I'm lucky, I might sleep through the whole thing. Or maybe I'll die of thirst before that happens. That'd show them I'm not here for their entertainment. Can't be much fun for the audience to watch a tribute die slowly of natural causes.

In the distance, a cannon sounds.

I force myself to sit up. I'm not going to die here. When I die, I want it to be on my terms, and I want the audience to watch the whole thing. If I die with this many tributes left in the arena, I'll be reduced to a footnote at the end of tonight's recaps. I want to die during mandatory viewing hours. I want to bore them to tears with my unspectacular death.

My heart thuds dully against my ribs. It feels like it's working harder than ever to push my dry blood around my body. It's damned hot in this tree, with the sun beating down on the leaves. Something sparkles in the distance. The light cuts through my head like a pickaxe. I close my eyes, annoyed.

Sparkling. What's sparkling out here?

My eyes snap open as my heart lands in my mouth. I squint in the direction of the sparkling, trying to make my eyes focus.

Could it be another tribute with a weapon? No – too big. Some muttation created by the Gamemakers? It's not moving, which probably rules that out. Mutts tend to move pretty fast. But what else would sparkle like that?

The answer comes to me slowly, filling my heart with a sickening hope.

Water. It's water reflecting the sunlight.

Slowly – carefully – I climb down the tree. I still feel weak from thirst, but the adrenaline has given me focus. I just need to get to the water. It seems like the sole purpose of my entire life.

I try to move quietly, but the forest keeps sloping at crazy angles and I stumble a few times, crashing into the underbrush. If there's another tribute within a mile of me, I've got no chance. I find that I don't really care. All that matters is reaching the water.

As the light in the forest turns orange, I hear splashing up ahead. The air already feels cooler on my face. I want to run, but if I fall I won't get up again, so I force myself to walk. Far away, the cannon sounds.

I round a small cluster of trees and then I'm at the river. It's the most beautiful sight in the entire world. Except there's already another tribute beside it.


	11. Chapter 11

11

I stumble back into the trees, but the other boy doesn't turn. Somehow he hasn't heard me yet. He's laying on his stomach with his face half in the river, and I can see from the marks on the riverbank that he's dragged himself there.

If I wasn't so crazed with thirst, I'd fall back into the woods and follow the river upstream to avoid the boy altogether. But I'm dizzy and confused, and I stand there in the open, trying to figure out how to get my legs to move without buckling beneath me. The boy still hasn't looked up.

There's something familiar about him. My legs take a lurching step forward even as my brain screams at me to turn and run. But the boy isn't moving, and I think I could take him if he did. I palm my knife as I creep up behind him.

It's Raize. I guess some part of me knew this already, because I'm not surprised. I nudge his arm with the toe of my boot, but I don't really expect a response, and I don't get one. When I roll him over, I can see that he's dead.

I think of the cannon that sounded just as I found the river. It must have been for Raize. His body wouldn't be here otherwise – they'd be taking him right now if I wasn't around. The corpse ships don't come while living tributes are in sight – I guess they're afraid we'll try to smuggle aboard with the bodies.

If Raize just died, whoever killed him can't be far off.

I spin around to find the attacker and nearly topple into the river. Instead, I fall to my knees beside Raize. His face is wet and his eyes are empty, but I don't see any blood. I push him onto his side to check his back, but his clothes aren't even torn. And he's still carrying a pack. Whatever killed him, it wasn't a tribute.

Thirst? But he was drinking from the river… Unless – I feel like I might throw up – _unless the river is poisoned_.

I slump down next to Raize's body, staring into the water. It's babbling as brightly as ever, but suddenly it seems as frightening as the creepy, golden squirrel.

Maybe I'm being stupid. Raize could have died from anything. Maybe he ate something poisonous. Maybe he stumbled into some sort of invisible Gamemaker trap. Maybe I'm an idiot who's dying of thirst six inches from running water.

But still I don't drink. My head is throbbing worse than ever and I can't think straight. I can't even bring myself to stand up and get away from Raize's body. Finally, because I can't think about anything else, I open my pack and take out my bottle of water.

It's even closer to empty than I thought. The water barely covers the bottom. When I shake it, it makes a hollow sloshing sound.

I unscrew the lid with shaking fingers and swallow it in one gulp. It feels like the water has been absorbed into my throat before it even hits my stomach. And that's the last of it.

It's getting dark. I don't want to spend the night next to Raize's body, tortured by water that could either kill me or save my life, but I can't bring myself to move. In the distance, a couple of squirrels chatter to each other. A cold shiver creeps up my back.

I stare at the river, my face turned away from Raize. I feel like something's trying to make a connection in my mind, but I'm too tired and sick to figure out what it is.

I think about the squirrel from before, in the tree. Maybe it's gone to get some of its friends to come back and finish me off. I think about it winking at me as it sucked a drop of rainwater out of a leaf. I'm so thirsty. I wish a drop of rainwater could satisfy me.

My jaw goes slack as realization hits. I think about the downpours – one last night and one this morning. Short, intense, and manufactured by the Gamemakers.

The rain wasn't just a way to torture us – it's our only drinkable water source! And that means there has to be another one pretty soon.

My body is suddenly humming with adrenaline. I watch my fingers fumble with Raize's pack through a haze. I can go through it later. Right now, I need to be moving.

I clamber to my feet and look down at Raize. I'll never find out if he was planning to kill me. I guess it doesn't really matter. We were all planning to kill each other, one way or another.

I turn away and head back into the forest, away from the river and from Raize. If it wasn't for him finding that exact part of the river just a few seconds before me, I'd be dead right now. It's not like he did it on purpose, and he wouldn't have done it at all if he'd had a choice, but it feels sort of wrong just to walk away from him like this.

As I reach the first row of trees, I turn and look back at him. He's on his stomach, the top of his head soaking in the river, just like I left him. That seems sort of wrong too, but I don't go back. As the first raindrops hit the leaves above my head, I start to run.

* * *

I manage to find another good climbing tree and scale its branches as the rain turns into another downpour. The water on my face is a cool relief, and I don't bother putting up my hood.

When I've climbed as high as I can, I wedge myself between the trunk and a branch and tilt my head back, my mouth wide open to catch the water falling out of the sky. I hold the bottle over my head and feel a thrill every time another drop taps against the inside.

The downpour lasts long enough to fill about a quarter of the bottle, and I've caught enough in my mouth to make my throat stop feeling so rough. I'm a little disappointed that the bottle's not fuller, but at least I'm not dead.

Once I'm sure the rain has stopped, I quickly make my way back to the ground. The trees don't feel safe since I tangled with that squirrel. I head away from the mountain until I find an outcropping of rock that offers some shelter. Just like last night, I roll out my sleeping back and stretch out on top of it.

In the dying light, I open Raize's bag and lay out his supplies. His pack is a lot smaller than mine, and he didn't have much – just a few strips of dried beef and a plastic funnel with a long, coiled tube. Raize obviously didn't figure out what to do with it, and it's still in its wrapping. I understand right away – this is how I can get more water.

I add Raize's supplies to my pack, minus one strip of beef that I chew slowly as I wedge myself further under the rock. I'm soaked to the skin, and I wonder if I'm dumb enough to light a fire. The air feels colder tonight, and it wouldn't surprise me if it was. The Gamemakers tend to introduce new hardships every day so that tributes don't get too comfortable. Like there was any risk of that.

By the time the anthem plays, I'm shivering. There were only two deaths today: tiny Flitch from Seven, and Raize. Seven is the lumber district, and I reckon Flitch would have lasted a few more days if this were a normal forest. I try not to imagine what her death looked like. I've got a feeling I haven't even begun to find out all the things that could kill me in here.

After the anthem finishes, the sky goes dark and I try to get some sleep. Pretty soon, though, I realize it's no good – I'm shivering so hard that my teeth are chattering. Eventually I give up and climb into my sleeping bag, wet clothes and all. I leave my muddy boots and socks outside the bag, hoping they'll dry quicker in the air, and that I won't need to leave in a hurry in the morning. I close my eyes, tighten my grip on my knife, and finally fall asleep.

* * *

I'm up early again the next morning. The ground is damp and the outside of my sleeping bag glistens with beads of water. I guess it rained during the night. I'm annoyed that I missed it, and worried that it didn't wake me. I've only seen two other living tributes since the Cornucopia, but I know that my luck can't go on forever. I need to stay on guard.

I take a tiny sip of last night's rainwater before I pack up my stuff and get moving, chewing a piece of dried fruit as I walk. My throat feels raw and my stomach is cramped with hunger. To distract myself, I pull the ball of twine out of my bag and start weaving one of Shanty's nets. With my eyes trained on the forest, I'm sure I screw up most of the knots, but at least it takes my mind off being hungry and thirsty. I keep moving away from the mountain.

There's another downpour around noon, and this time, I'm ready. The trees around me are either too small to climb, or don't have branches low enough for me to reach, but I get Raize's funnel out and put the tube into the bottle, then hold the funnel as high as I can. It's got a much wider mouth than the bottle, and by the time the rain stops, the bottle is nearly full again. I let myself take another sip before I move on.

I check the mountain again in the mid-afternoon. It's so far away that its snowy peak almost looks like another cloud. Still no sign of an end to the arena. I keep moving, fiddling with the net that's growing from my hands.

As I walk on, I start to get the creeping feeling that something isn't right. The back of my neck is tingling like someone's watching me, but I keep looking around and I don't see anyone. If there is someone there, they're staying well hidden and masking the sound of their footsteps with mine.

I stop abruptly and listen hard, but the woods are silent.

Suddenly, I realize what's been bothering me. _The woods are silent._

I let the net drop from my right hand and palm my knife, holding it out in front of my chest like the instructor showed me. My eyes flicker from trunk to trunk, trying to figure out where the attack will come from. But I'm looking in the wrong place. When the attack does come, it's from above.

I'm lucky that the squirrel screams on its way down. It gives me just enough time to wheel around, and the thing that would have landed on my neck lands on my shoulder. It bites into my flesh, its golden body clamped onto my arm. I cry out in surprise and pain as I drag it off, taking some fabric and skin with it. Then the rest of the pack is on me.

Furry bodies drop from the trees like hailstones, landing on my head, shoulders and neck. Their teeth are like knives; their claws are needles. They're coming faster than I can pull them off.

I start to run, but the ones on my body hang on and I can hear the others snarling as they chase me. I bat at my shoulders and face, blindly trying to swipe them off. My knife connects with one of them and I hear it scream. My knife connects with my arms and face a few times, too, but that pain melts into the agony of the squirrel bites and I barely notice.

I run headlong into a tree and use the trunk to knock off more squirrels. I tear one out of my hair, its claws still scrabbling for my eyes. Its nails leave a trail of fire across my forehead, and I grasp it by the head and bash its body against the tree. I kick out furiously at the squirrels trying to scamper up my legs, then peel another one off my neck and spear it through the stomach. Sharp claws dig into the skin of my right shoulder blade, and with another cry I throw myself against the tree, crushing the squirrel's body between my back and the trunk.

Squirrels are piling up at my feet, scrambling over each other to get at my legs. One of them bites me on the back of the knee. My leg buckles, but I manage to stay standing. If I fall into the mass of squirrels, something tells me I won't get back up.

I reach down to rip the thing off my knee. It snaps at my fingers and misses, getting tangled in the net that's still dangling from my left hand. I yank the net away and the squirrel comes with it.

I hurl the net over the squirrels at my feet and they snarl, trying to fight their way through my knots and getting twisted up with each other.

I kick the bundle of squirrels aside and start running again. Blood wells up in my eyes and I try to blink it out, since my hands are busy tearing squirrels off my body. My breath burns in my lungs and I push myself harder, trying to escape them. I don't know how long I've been running when I realize that nothing is biting me, and that I can't hear their shrieks anymore.

I stop swinging my knife around. I chance a look over my shoulder, then up in the trees.

Not a squirrel in sight.

I slow to a jog, then a walk. Finally, I stop. My chest is heaving. Every inch of exposed skin feels like it's on fire. Sweat sizzles in the cuts on my forehead and back.

I listen for a few moments, but they don't seem to be following me. My breathing slows and my lungs stop burning.

The same can't be said for my skin. The blood in my eyes is becoming a real problem. I try to wipe it with my sleeve, but the fabric's designed to be non-absorbent, and I just end up smearing the blood around. I'll bet I make a pretty picture for the cameras.

There's some moss growing up a nearby tree. I tear a handful of it off and dab at my cuts. The moss soaks the blood right up, so I tear off some more and pack it against my deeper wounds. There's a chunk of flesh missing from my left shoulder. It's bleeding pretty fast, and doesn't look like it's going to stop anytime soon.

One of my pant legs is shredded below the knee, so I cut off a strip and use it to secure a hunk of moss to my shoulder. I'm already feeling light-headed, and I hope the moss will keep me from losing too much more blood. A few other cuts continue to ooze, but they should stop soon enough.

I pause to take stock. Surface injuries on my face, neck, arms and legs. Serious wound on my shoulder. Nothing to clean any of it with, which is bad. On the other hand, I've provided some entertainment for the audience and the Gamemakers called off their mutts before they killed me, so it could be worse. Maybe they'll leave me alone long enough to clean myself up.

I can just imagine the commentators chuckling about this in the studio. Smartass Haymitch Abernathy bested by fluffy rodents. Or maybe they've got one of their scientists in to brag about all the great features in their squirrel mutts. They've probably cooked up a non-lethal version for people to buy as pets. I've heard some people in the Capitol collect mutts from the arenas. The deadlier the breed, the more popular they are to collectors. Only docile ones, of course. If someone from the Capitol ran into what I just did, they'd probably piss themselves to death.

I spit some blood onto a patch of yellow flowers and glare into the trees, where I figure they've got at least one camera.

"Hope you enjoyed that as much as I did," I growl. It's the best I can muster right now. It should keep them laughing for a while. Idiots.

My crazed squirrel run has gotten me completely turned around. For all I know, I'm facing the mountain right now. I know it's not a good idea to climb a tree with squirrel mutts nearby and my shoulder bleeding like it is, but I want to put some distance on this place before nightfall. Besides, if I wait until morning to check the mountain, I'll just aggravate my wound and undo any healing my body manages to do overnight.

After a fair bit of wandering around, I manage to find a tree that looks easy to climb. I hoist myself up slowly, trying to use my left arm as little as possible and gritting my teeth against the raw pain of my cuts being pulled open. I note the position of the mountain – I was heading almost straight for it, like I thought – and climb back down.

I move pretty slowly for the rest of the afternoon, and I set up camp long before I normally would. I discover a sort of shallow cave that might look like a sweet little place to have a picnic, if I wasn't fighting for my life. And if I came from somewhere where people had picnics. I roll out my sleeping bag and take a few more sips of water. Then, because I'm so dizzy and I know some of it must be from dehydration, I let myself take a few more. I set up the bottle and funnel just in case there's rain later.

The rain won't just be about getting drinking water tonight. I've decided it's also the only way I can clean my cuts, since all the other water in the forest is poisoned. I take off my jacket, shirt, shoes and socks. I hesitate for a moment, then take off my pants, too. I've still got underwear on, so it's not like I'm showing the audience anything they didn't already see at the Tribute Parade.

I start on a strip of beef while I wait for the rain I hope will come. I've nibbled my way through almost half of it when I hear the _pat-pat-pat_ of the first drops on the leaves high above my head. I set my dinner aside and go out in the rain, trying to hold the funnel up in one hand while scrubbing dried blood off my body with the other. My cuts start stinging all over again, but I feel better with them clean.

I ease the blood-soaked moss off my shoulder. The flow from the wound has slowed to a sullen ooze. I wipe carefully at its edges with a fresh piece of moss from the outside of the cave.

When the rain stops, the water bottle is almost full and I'm almost clean. I sit on my sleeping bag and finish my dinner while I air-dry, then find a fresh piece of moss for my shoulder bandage. I put on my dry clothes and crawl into my sleeping bag as the light starts to fade. I'm brain- and bone-tired, but my eyes stay wide open as I watch the trees for any sign of movement. My cuts and scratches sing with pain, and my left shoulder has started up a kind of dull throb. I doubt I'll get much sleep tonight.

The anthem begins as soon as the sun sets. There was only one death today: a boy from Ten. I know that's not good. The audience tends to get bored without a few deaths each day, which is why the Games never last more than a week. Ours might be allowed to go on longer since there are so many of us, but I don't think the Gamemakers will let things continue at this pace. Something big will happen soon.

One year, they released a giant spider mutt into the arena when things got dull. Another time, it was a tornado. Three years ago, the sky inside the arena actually rained fire. Whatever the Gamemakers have in store for us, I just have to hope I can stay clear of it.

* * *

A/N: Thanks so much for the lovely reviews, favs and follows! As always, I'd love to hear what you think.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N:** Thank you so much for the lovely reviews! You guys make this so much fun. The next couple chapters are on the shorter side, so I'll post another one tomorrow. I usually post about once a week, but the rest of the story is mapped out, so it will definitely be completed. Thank you all for reading! Enjoy!

* * *

12

The pain becomes a background buzz that makes it impossible to sleep. I finally settle into a daze somewhere between sleeping and waking. As soon as predawn light starts to turn the forest gray, I give up and drag myself out of my sleeping bag.

I break camp in time to collect some more water before I get moving. As the sun comes up, I inspect the cuts on my hands and arms. The worst ones haven't scabbed yet, but they're not bleeding anymore, and the skin around them is white. I'm not sure what that means, but I know it's better than the skin around them being red, which would mean infection.

It rains again in the middle of the afternoon, and I manage to rinse my shoulder wound. My entire arm is throbbing now, and the skin around the gash is swollen and pink. I don't know what to do besides bandage it back up and hope for the best. Focusing on my injuries means I don't collect much drinking water, and my bottle is only half-full.

I've been walking for a while when the forest goes silent again. It's like someone hit a switch, and the birdsong I didn't even realize I was hearing cuts off in an instant.

I don't wait around this time. As soon as I notice the silence, I'm sprinting through the woods, my eyes on the trees.

My legs are shaking so bad that I trip and slam into the soft ground. As I push myself up, I feel something trembling beneath me. Silver pebbles and gold pine needles dance across the forest floor.

I'm not shaking. The arena is. The Gamemakers made an earthquake.

We learned about earthquakes in history class. A bad one at the beginning of the Catastrophes caused a giant tidal wave that dragged whole cities underwater. As far as I know, there's never been one in Panem. Until now.

I try standing up. The trembling ground sends vibrations up my legs, but by steadying myself against the trees, I manage to keep jogging. The shaking gets weaker. After a little while, it stops.

I slow to a walk and look around. Nothing seems to have been damaged out here. The birds are singing again and I start to relax. Looks like the Gamemaker's trap didn't catch me. Maybe being so far out in the woods saved me from it. I imagine the earth splitting apart beneath the Cornucopia, maybe the entire field disappearing into a bottomless pit. That would be pretty impressive for the audience, especially since the Careers tend to set up camp at the Cornucopia. The strongest tributes might be out of the Games, along with all of their supplies. I won't know unless I check.

I'm hoisting myself painfully into a low-branched tree when the first cannon sounds. Just like after the Cornucopia, the blasts go off one after another. A summary of the dead.

The cannon goes on and on, my heart speeding up with each boom. I'm one of the final twenty tributes. Now seventeen. Now fifteen. Now thirteen.

Thirteen. Twelve tributes dead in the earthquake. Thirteen left in the arena. And I'm one of them.

My heart is pounding as I claw my way up the tree, scratching my arms and legs and not bothering to care. I'm in the final thirteen. I can't believe it.

When I finally get into the top branches, I turn toward the mountain and the Cornucopia. I can't see either. There's a thick, black cloud in front of the mountain, stretching up into the sky. It's like no storm cloud I've ever seen. It looks more like smoke. Did the earthquake start a fire? If it did, it's the field that's burning; I can't see any flames among the trees.

I try to guess at the location of the mountain in the smoke, then climb back down and keep walking.

* * *

The light is just turning that first shade of sunset orange when I see a dark wall up ahead. I freeze, waiting to find out what new trap I've stumbled into.

Nothing happens. After a few moments, I creep forward, knife first.

When I reach the wall, it just turns out to be a hedge. I roll my eyes at myself and reach out to push the branches aside.

The leaves sting like needles. I jerk my hand back with a gasp of pain and stick my fingers in my mouth, trying to suck out the invisible stingers that seem to be burrowing into my skin.

The hedge is too tall to climb, and it goes on in either direction as far as I can see.

My heart is beating double-time in my chest. _This_ is the edge of the arena. I'm sure of it. I actually found the edge. I listen hard, but I can't hear any noises from the other side.

I pull my fingers out of my mouth. They still hurt a little. I'm not getting through that thing without an axe and possibly full body armor.

I turn left and start walking, my eyes on the hedge. Maybe it's shorter somewhere else. Or maybe I can find a tree with branches close enough to the hedge that I can see to the other side.

I keep walking as the sun goes down, but the trees near the hedge aren't much taller than me, and the hedge doesn't get any shorter. There has to be a break somewhere. Doesn't there?

I'm so desperate to find a way through that I almost ignore the first few drops of rain that tell me another downpour is coming. I have to force myself to set up the bottle and funnel. I pull off my shirt and the moss bandage.

My shoulder looks worse. The short downpour gives it another rinse, and I decide not to bandage it up again tonight. My other cuts have been healing pretty well – maybe I should have left this one exposed all along.

I set up my sleeping bag under some low bushes near the hedge, even though I doubt any other tributes have made it out this far. Why would they? As far as I know, no tribute has ever tried to find the edge of the arena before. But I can't help feeling like there's something precious on the other side of that hedge. Maybe something I can use to get out of here. Maybe just an out-district wasteland I could fade away into. Maybe a row of Peacekeepers ready to gun me down. Still. I'd rather go out fighting one of them than another tribute.

I sit facing the hedge while I drink some water and eat a little beef and fruit. When the anthem begins, I tip my head back and look into the sky to see the fallen.

It's a long list tonight. A girl and a boy from One. The other girl from Two. Shanty and a boy from Four. That's five of the Careers dead – and five still alive.

There are some others I don't recognize, then Shibori and Bobbin from Eight. I think of the boys in the crowd at our interviews, the ones who held up Shibori's face in a heart. There'll be lots of tears in the Capitol tonight. Or maybe they've already found another tribute to lust after.

The image of a girl from Eleven is replaced by the Capitol's seal as the anthem ends. So Maysilee escaped the earthquake too. I decide that I'm happy about this, and don't let myself think about it any more than that.

I put my shirt back on, careful not to let the filthy cloth touch the wound on my shoulder. I crawl into my sleeping bag with my knife in one hand, watching the hedge until I drift off.

* * *

It's still dark when I wake up. At first I think it's the pain that jarred me awake, but then I hear a shrill beep. I catch my breath, trying to place the sound. Is it coming from the other side of the hedge?

I ease myself out of my sleeping bag in case I need to make a quick escape, my knife clenched tightly in my fist.

There's something pale reflecting moonlight on the ground between me and the hedge. I edge closer, knife raised. When I recognize the silver parachute, my shoulders slump. It's a sponsor gift.

The thing stops beeping as soon as my fingers close around it. I tear off the parachute and open the metal canister attached to it.

Inside is a tiny pot of white ointment. I look at it, then at my shoulder. The stuff smells like chemicals, and I've got a pretty good idea what it is. What I don't understand is why it's been sent to me.

Who would sponsor me? There are thirteen tributes left in the arena, five of them Careers. Even sponsors who like to bet on the underdog shouldn't be betting on me. All I've done is wander around and get chewed up by some squirrels. Dolly or Beulah probably stands a better chance of winning.

But the fact is, someone did sponsor me. Actually, since this medicine was probably pretty expensive, chances are that a lot of someones have sponsored me. Maybe they think I'm funny. Maybe they're curious to find out what I'm planning to do when I get through the hedge.

If I was smart, I'd do like Larvina told me back in the Capitol. _Don't squander it._ But I've never been one to take a gift blindly, and this one has more than just parachute strings attached.

I've never liked the idea of sponsor gifts. The gifts make sponsors think they're a part of the Games when they've got no place in here. They rip children away from their families and drop them into deadly arenas, all the while claiming justice for crimes they can't even remember. That's bad enough. But then they dress us up and parade us around like buffoons, and if we're entertaining enough, they send us scraps of their enormous bounty and feel like they've done something brave and kind.

Bile scorches my throat and I swallow hard. I hate them. I hate every last one of them, but most of all, I hate the ones who pretend not to hate me. Because who could do this to someone they didn't hate? What kind of monster sends kids to their deaths and then teases them with gifts that make them feel like they might get to live?

If I use this gift, then every second I stay alive in here is a second that some Capitol slugs think they gave me. I will not die owing them.

I sit there, wrapped in my sleeping bag, turning the pot of ointment over and over in my hands.

Birds start to sing in the woods behind me. The sun rises, and I see that the hedge looks just as solid as it did last night.

Once it's late enough that I figure people are watching, I look into the forest, hoping I'm near a camera. I hold up the tub of ointment and smirk.

"Thanks, but no thanks," I say. I hurl the medicine into the woods and start breaking camp.


	13. Chapter 13

13

I wasn't brave enough to look at my wound while I still had the ointment, but once I've packed up my supplies, I take a moment to inspect it. It doesn't look good. The edges are still swollen and red, and it's oozing thin, yellow pus. It hurts so much I almost can't feel anything else.

I'm not sure when it's going to rain again, so I do something maybe even stupider than throwing away the medicine, and pour some of my drinking water over it. At least that rinses off the pus.

I tie the strip of cloth from my pants around my arm below the wound to stop the ragged edges of my shirt from rubbing against it. Then I shove my jacket into my pack and keep following the hedge.

It quickly becomes my dullest day in the arena so far. The hedge seems to go on forever, never ending and never changing. The trees near the hedge are stubbornly short, and most are too thin to climb anyway. Even when I go farther into the woods and climb the biggest tree I can find, I can't see over the hedge.

There's another short rainstorm and I collect some more water. My shoulder stops oozing, which I hope is a good thing. I eat another piece of fruit. I've got four left, and five strips of beef. It should last me for a couple more days. The cannon sounds once in the morning, and twice mid-afternoon. I'm in the final ten. I wonder how long these Games will go on, and how much longer I'll be in them.

It's late afternoon when I notice the trees starting to thin. I pick up speed, thinking I've found some new part of the arena. Then I see glinting gold through the leaves and pull up short.

It's the Cornucopia. I've walked back to the field.

I stand there gaping like a fool, which is exactly how I feel. The hedge led me right back to where I started.

I want to throw myself on the ground and cry like a little kid. I _feel_ like a little kid. How could I have been dumb enough to think I could just walk out of here? The Gamemakers have been designing this arena for a year. Maybe longer. They wouldn't just leave a door for us to walk out through. The hedge must surround the entire arena, just as tall and impenetrable as the part I've been staring at for the past day.

As far as I can see, I've got two options: go back into the forest, or try my luck in the mountain landscape.

I creep toward the field, keeping a sharp ear out for any other tributes. There doesn't seem to be anyone around.

At the edge of the forest, I peer across the field. The Cornucopia is intact, and I don't see any fire damage to the meadow.

I squint toward the mountain, but it's gone. Or at least, the snowcapped peak that's been my guide the last few days has disappeared. The mountain is charred black, and half of it is missing. Streaks of orange and red glow along its sides.

It wasn't just an earthquake. The mountain exploded. They made a volcano.

Well, that settles it. Without another glance at the mountain, I head back into the woods. At least I know how to survive in here. I'll try my luck in the forest and wait until it runs out.

* * *

I set up camp under some prickly bushes as soon as it starts getting dark. No point crashing through the woods with nine other tributes wandering around. I lay on my back, taking sips of water and slowly eating a strip of dried beef, trying to ignore the throbbing in my shoulder.

The sun goes down and the anthem plays. The death toll today includes a boy from Seven and Dolly and Beulah from Ten. I think of the two cannons I heard this afternoon. At least they died together. I wonder if that made it easier for their parents. Would it have been easier for mine, if Vernie and I were somehow in here together?

Before I can think about that too much, I close my eyes and let sleep ambush me.

* * *

Birdsong wakes me just before dawn. I watch as sunlight turns the leaves above my face gray, then yellow, and finally green. If I'm still alive tomorrow, it will have been exactly one week since I entered the arena. I'm almost used to living in a constant state of total boredom and abject terror. Every second could be my last, but I've still got to go through the dull motions of keeping myself alive.

I check my shoulder before climbing out of my sleeping bag. It doesn't look better than it did yesterday, but it doesn't look worse. I take a few sips of water and eat a piece of fruit before loading all of my supplies into my pack. It hurts to use my left arm now. I use it anyway, trying to ignore the pain and what it means.

Without the goal of finding the edge of the arena, I'm not exactly sure where to go. All I can think to do is head deeper into the woods, away from the Cornucopia. If the Careers have been on the mountain for the past few days, I'm hoping they'll be too wary of the forest to wander too far in.

As I walk, I try to figure out who else is left. Filigree and Brocade from One. Aetius and the other boy from Two. A girl from Four. The tall boy from Five. I think there's someone left from Six… or maybe it's Seven. With so many tributes, it's been tough to keep track, and I haven't been trying very hard. Then there's Maysilee and me. That's only nine of us, so I've forgotten someone.

I'm still trying to figure out who when I step into a clearing and come face to face with three other tributes.

It's Aetius, Brocade and the other boy from Two. They all look a little worse for wear, but they're just as massive as I remember. Brocade's long, blond hair is singed above his shoulders. The boy from Two whose name I can't remember has lost his shirt. Judging from the shiny pink splotches across his chest, I'd say it burned off. Aetius has a long burn down one arm, but it doesn't seem to be affecting his grip on his sword. All three of them are streaked with ash and sweat.

They look almost as surprised to see me as I am to see them. Aetius recovers first and gives me a slow, cruel smile.

"I've been looking forward to this."

I swallow hard, my jaw clenched. I honestly can't see how I'm going to make it out of this. Now that the moment has come, I don't have any jokes for the camera. A boring death seems to be out of the question, but I'm not going to give them anything I don't have to.

"Leave this one to me," Aetius commands the others.

I go for my knife. My fingers have barely closed around the handle when he's running at me.

He swings at my head, but I'm shorter than he thinks and I duck below his blade, slashing with my knife. I manage to nick him. He dances back with a grunt, his hand pressed against his side.

The other boy from Two lunges and I slice at his throat. He dodges, but I get my foot against his chest and shove as hard as I can. I wouldn't be strong enough to move him normally, but I hear the ridged sole of my boot slap against his healing burns. He cries out and topples backwards onto a clump of purple flowers.

An arrow whistles past my ear and I jerk to the side, turning to face Brocade, who's already reloaded his bow.

"He's mine, I said!" Aetius roars, but the other boy from Two lurches at me anyway. This time, I don't miss his throat.

The handle of my knife shudders as the blade cuts through flesh and tendons. Bright red blood spurts between the boy's fingers as he clutches at his neck, falling to his knees with a gurgle.

Aetius lunges again, his sword aimed at my stomach. I grab his wrist and use his momentum to deflect the blow. His fingers wrap around my arm and twist, flinging me to the ground.

I roll to my hands and knees as Aetius strides toward me, his face twisted with rage. He aims a kick at my ribs but I manage to dodge, then catch his ankle and force it up, throwing him on his back.

Something hard and metal forces my chin up as a knee slams into my back. I claw at my throat and my fingers grasp the arch of Brocade's bow. He jerks it back, closing my windpipe. My cry of pain turns into a breathless snort.

It takes all my strength to heave myself forward and drag the bow away from my throat. Brocade flies over my head, his boot connecting hard with my ear. I grab him by the hair, pull his head back, and slide my knife under his jaw. It's easier this time, and he dies without a sound.

Before I have time to look for Aetius, he's seized me by the back of the neck, the fingers of his other hand closing around my wrist. He twists until I'm forced to drop my knife, the joints in my hand screaming. I kick out blindly, trying to hit his legs. I don't connect, but I do manage to throw us both off balance. We topple to the ground in a tangle of limbs and snarls.

We roll across the soft earth, grunting as we try to damage each other as much as possible. Aetius is stronger, but I'm faster, and I'm doing anything I can to get away.

I'm on my back when Aetius' fist smashes into my face. I hear the crunch of my nose breaking right before pain hits me between the eyes. One of us screams, and I think it must be me.

I try to throw Aetius off, but he's too strong and we roll again, on top of Brocade's body this time. I can feel his hot blood soaking through the leg of my pants.

Aetius pries my hands off his jacket and tosses me away like I don't weigh a thing. I hit the ground with a painful thud, my ribs banging against a rock. I scramble to my knees, searching for my knife, but blood is coating my face, blinding me.

Aetius' fingers slide into my hair and he yanks my head back. I feel the cold, sharp edge of his sword against my neck and freeze.

"Well, I guess that's it," he murmurs. His blade bites into my throat. I try to take shallower breaths. "Thanks for all the laughs, kid."

I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for the pain.

It doesn't come.

Aetius makes a choking sound and the edge of the sword drops from my throat. My head is jerked back as Aetius falls. I spin around in time to see him hit the ground, my scalp stinging where he tore some hair out on his way down.

I stagger to my feet, frantically wiping blood out of my eyes, trying to see the attacker.

Maysilee steps out from behind a tree.


	14. Chapter 14

14

It takes me a second to connect the blowgun in Maysilee's hand with the dead tribute at my feet. When I do, I just stare at her, rubbing my throat and trying to erase the memory of Aetius' sword pressed against it.

"We'd live longer with two of us," Maysilee says. Casual, like we're still in the Training Center and she's trying to convince me to be allies.

Truth is, I still don't like the idea. But she just saved my life, and I owe her.

"Guess you just proved that," I say. My voice is thick from the blood sliding down the back of my throat. Pain radiates from my nose, throbbing from my temples to the roots of my teeth. "Allies?"

Maysilee just nods.

Brocade and the unnamed boy from Two were both carrying packs, and Maysilee and I strip them off the bodies without a word. I try not to look at their faces as we pick over their remains.

I had to do it. I know that. But it turns out that knowing you have to kill someone and actually doing it are very different things. I force myself to stop thinking about it and focus on my next move instead.

On_ our_ next move.

"Can you use one of these?" I ask Maysilee, holding up Brocade's bow.

She shakes her head.

In that case, it's best to let the corpse ship take the bow and arrows out of the arena with Brocade's body, so no one else gets ahold of them. Without looking at his face, I stick Brocade's arm through the bow so it rests on his shoulder.

"We should get going," Maysilee says. "If their allies knew where they were, they'll be on their way here."

I hadn't thought of that. I didn't hear the cannons during the fight, but of course they must have sounded. Three in a row. The other Careers wouldn't need to be geniuses to figure out that their friends were involved somehow.

We head into the woods, each carrying two packs. My knife is still in my hand and Maysilee is clutching her blowgun.

I watch her out of the corners of my eyes as we walk. She's thinner. Her face is still round, but her big cheeks have started to sink and her eyes seem wider. She doesn't look nearly as banged up as me – just a few scratches on her face and hands. There's something new in her eyes, though. Something haunted, like she's seen things or done things that she's trying to forget. I wonder if I've got the same look in mine.

We walk in silence for a couple of hours, until it starts to rain. By unspoken agreement, we both stop and rummage through our packs. I pull out my bottle and funnel and Maysilee pulls out a small wooden bowl. She watches me curiously as I hold up the funnel and I shrug.

When the downpour ends, we find a somewhat dry spot under a tall evergreen and sit down to sort through the Career packs. We lay each item between us on the ground, one at a time.

There's a lot more dried meat and fruit. Also a couple bottles of water. That gets a smile out of Maysilee, who swallows the rainwater in her bowl in one gulp. We find another sleeping bag, half a box of matches, two flashlights and a silver tub of ointment that's clearly a sponsor gift. It's not the same stuff that was sent to me – this stuff is thick and greasy, like animal fat. Given the healing burns on Aetius and the other boy from Two, I'd say its purpose is pretty clear.

"We could try it anyway," Maysilee suggests. "On… your arm." I can see she's trying not to look at my shoulder wound, which has started oozing pus again since the fight. "Even if the medicine doesn't heal it, it's probably got some sort of antibiotic."

She holds out the jar, her eyes turned away, and I take it with a smirk. I pour a little water from one of the Careers' bottles over my shoulder to rinse it out, then smear some of the ointment over the grisly mouth of the wound. It stings, and I hope Maysilee's right about the antibiotic.

At the bottom of Brocade's bag, we find a couple of knives and a metal canister with a long nozzle and a big red trigger. What good he thought the knives would do him at the bottom of a backpack is beyond me. We puzzle over the other thing for a while until I get impatient and press the trigger. A short jet of blue flame bursts from the nozzle with a sputtering hiss. I'm so surprised that I nearly drop it. The flame cuts off.

"How are we supposed to use that?" Maysilee asks.

I shrug. "Maybe they had a use for it over on the mountain." I set it to one side.

We split the food and water evenly. Maysilee doesn't have a sleeping bag, so she takes that, along with the matches. We both take a flashlight. I offer Maysilee one of the knives, but she tells me to hang onto it, so now I have three. I arrange them in my belt, hoping this means I won't get disarmed again.

After being alone all this time, it feels weird to be with Maysilee. Weird, but also kind of nice. I still think partnering up is a dumb idea, but she lets me use her bowl to wash the blood off my face, and it's a relief to be able to eat lunch knowing that someone else is watching my back.

We lean against the tree, facing opposite directions as we each eat a strip of the Careers' beef and compare notes on the arena.

"The water's poisoned," I say.

"So are the flowers."

"Seriously?"

I hear her hair rustle against the bark as she nods.

"That's how Twylah died," she murmurs.

I frown. "She was eating flowers?"

"She was trying to figure out if it was a plant she knew," Maysilee snaps. "She was just smelling it and then… she just…" She trails off and I don't press for details. I wonder if the Gamemakers think they're funny, killing a thirteen-year-old girl for smelling flowers.

"I found out about the water from Raize," I tell her, trying to change the subject.

Maysilee whips around to look at me.

"You saw Raize?"

"Not alive."

Her shoulders slump. After a moment, she turns back around.

"Oh."

"The squirrels are also pretty deadly," I say after a while.

Maysilee sighs. "I think everything in here is."

There's not much I can say to that. I focus on taking even smaller bites of meat, hoping my face won't hurt so much if I move my jaw less. I prod the area around my nose to check the swelling. It feels pretty bad, and I'm not sure I want to ask Maysilee to describe it to me. My fingers hit a sensitive spot and I bite my lips to keep from gasping.

"Do you know what happened to Bowen?" Maysilee asks.

"No idea."

"Me neither. Last time I saw him was at the Cornucopia."

"What was he doing?"

"Running toward the Cornucopia."

"Idiot."

"_Haymitch_," Maysilee hisses.

"What?"

She jerks her head at the branches above us.

"His family might be watching," she whispers, barely moving her lips.

I roll my eyes and turn away. I don't care if his family's watching. They must know their son was a moron. Then I remember that Bowen's mom works in the same pit as my dad. No matter what happens to me in here, I don't want to make my family's lives any harder.

I bite my lip, trying to think of a way to dig myself out of this.

"I just meant… he should have been more careful. He could have done okay in here."

That's a lie, as anyone who knew Bowen could see. But Maysilee doesn't scold me, and I figure it's the best I can do.

"How did you get that stuff, anyway?" I ask, nodding at the small pack she's tossed aside in favor of one of the Careers' bigger ones.

"It wasn't too far from my spot at the Cornucopia," she says. "I grabbed it on my way into the woods."

"The blowgun was in there?"

"And two dozen darts."

I let out a low whistle.

"You got lucky," I say, only sort of joking.

"I know," she says, not joking at all. "I think they were supposed to be for hunting, but after I saw what the flowers did to Twylah… well, I added to them a little."

"You used the flowers to make them poisonous?" I'm impressed in spite of myself. I didn't think Maysilee was dumb, but I didn't exactly think she was cunning. I definitely didn't think she was so ready to kill. I doubt the audience did either, after her ridiculous interview. They'll be scrambling to sponsor her now.

"Haymitch," she says suddenly. I jerk around, half-expecting to see another tribute bearing down on us. But Maysilee's staring at me.

"Yeah?"

"We're in the _final eight_," she says, eyes wide. "The final seven, really – that means they'll be going to Twelve, interviewing our friends and families…"

I'd forgotten the running tally I've had going in my head, but she's right. The final eight. There hasn't been a tribute from Twelve in the final eight since before I was born. And now there are two of us.

Even though the Games are stupid and I don't give a goat turd about "district pride," I'm pleased. After all those years getting knocked around and bullied, it's funny to think about the kids at school having to pretend they like me for the cameras. Maybe it will make things easier for my family, at least for a while.

Maysilee gives a happy sigh. "They'll _have_ to show people what it's like there now."

My lip curls, and I know I'm going to say something mean before I even know what it is.

"Like they show them every year at the reaping?" I sneer.

"That's different. They don't interview–"

"They won't show anything they don't want to," I interrupt, shoving my new supplies into my pack. "Maybe they'll ship in some food and slap some new paint on the buildings in town. They'll do just enough to make the District 12 they want the audience to see. And as soon as we die, things will be just like they were before. Let's get moving."

I head off without checking to see if Maysilee is following. At first, I'm not sure she is.

After a few yards, I hear her footsteps behind me. I slow down a little, but I don't look back.

* * *

**A/N:** Whew! I'm very glad Haymitch has someone to talk to again, even if he is kind of a jerk to her. I hope all you Maysilee fans are happy with the way I've written her!


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N:** A nice, long one this week - I hop you enjoy! Please R&R. (Rest and relax. Obviously.)

15

We don't talk again for the rest of the afternoon. My nose throbs with every step, and I'm too busy focusing on the pain to think about some girl's bruised feelings.

At dusk, we come across a big tree with long, leafy branches that reach to the ground. Maysilee looks at me and loads her blowgun with a poisoned dart.

I find a small stone on the ground and toss it at the tree. It flies between the leaves and clatters against the trunk.

When no squirrels come pouring out of the branches and no tributes come bursting through the leaves, I figure it's safe enough to go in.

The drooping branches of the tree make a secluded little cavern next to the trunk where we roll out our sleeping bags. I dig in my pack for some water and a bit of food, and Maysilee does the same.

I don't feel bad for snapping at her earlier. I know I'm right, and she should get over her childish fantasies of anyone in the Capitol giving a damn what happens in Twelve. But the silence is starting to get to me. Somehow, silence with someone else is a lot worse than silence on your own.

"I can take first watch," I offer, more for something to say than anything else.

"Okay," Maysilee says with her mouth full. This is the second time I've watched her wolf a meal that I could drag out over half an hour, and the words are out of my mouth before I'm sure I should say them.

"You should eat slower."

Maysilee glares at me, and I can see that I should have kept my mouth shut. Too late now.

"You'll feel fuller if you slow down," I explain. "My parents made it into a game when we were little. We'd each try to make our food last the longest. You end up feeling like you ate more than you did."

Maysilee eyes the full strip of beef in my hand, then glances down at the scrap she's got left of hers. She swallows and takes a tiny bite, chewing it carefully. Satisfied, I go back to my meal.

"I've got an idea about how we can collect more water," she says.

"Yeah?"

"I'll show you in the morning." She climbs into her sleeping bag, chewing the last bit of her dinner. "Wake me if you get too tired."

I lean back against the smooth trunk of the tree, slowly working my way through the rest of my dinner. My nose hasn't stopped hurting all afternoon, and the pain spikes every time I chew. That makes it pretty easy to eat slow.

The anthem starts and I look up on instinct, but our tree's leaves are blocking the sky. I don't bother getting up to see it. There will only be three tributes listed tonight, and I don't need pictures to remember their faces.

Maysilee's breathing turns deep and even. I try to focus on that, hoping it will keep me from hearing the boy from Two drowning in his own blood. There was nothing I could have done differently. I'm not even sorry they're dead. But I guess you don't have to be sorry someone's dead to be sorry you killed them.

I finish my dinner and, not sure what else to do, I lay my three knives in a row and start polishing them with the hem of my shirt. I decide not to think about Brocade or the boy from Two again. They both probably became murderers at the Cornucopia. Now I'm one too. Whoever kills me will be one also. At least I won't have to live with it much longer. I'm not going to spend my last few days feeling guilty for something I couldn't help.

I set down one knife and start cleaning the next. Pretty soon, I won't be able to tell which one I used to slit two boys' throats.

* * *

I clean all three knives five times before I wake Maysilee. She rubs her eyes and props herself up against the tree, her sleeping bag still around her legs. I crawl into mine and fall asleep before my head hits the ground. I don't dream.

When I wake up, it's still dark. I roll over to ask Maysilee if she wants a break, but my voice dies in my throat. Her stuff is beside me, but she's gone.

I'm out of my sleeping bag in a flash, a knife in each hand. I can hear someone rustling around and panting on the other side of the curtain of leaves and I creep forward in a crouch.

I hold my breath, then whip the leaves to one side and lunge forward, knives first. Maysilee turns with a gasp, her blowgun halfway to her lips. For a second, we just stare at each other.

"What are you doing?" I grind out, scared and furious, and furious about being scared.

Just like at the Training Center, Maysilee refuses to be ruffled.

"I told you I had an idea for how to get more water." I realize that she's got my funnel in her hand. I'm about to snap at her for going through my things, but before I can open my mouth, she jumps into the air and tosses the funnel as high as she can. I'm still gaping when the funnel gets hooked in the V of a tree branch, the tube tumbling down until it ends just above our heads.

"Got it," Maysilee whispers to herself.

"That's perfect, Maysilee," I spit. "Throwing away my funnel helps us how?"

She rolls her eyes and points at the funnel.

"See how there are all those big leaves around it?" she asks. She's patronizing me, so I answer her question with a glare. "When it rains, they'll get heavy. Some of them might tip into the funnel. Either way, it's higher up than you could hold it."

"And what about when we move on?"

Maysilee frowns.

"We don't have to move on yet. No one knows we're here, and that tree makes for good shelter."

"What if someone finds us? If we have to leave in a hurry, the funnel's lost."

"Let's just see if it works," she says, laying a hand on my good arm.

I can tell she's trying to manage me, and I hate it. I also know she's right, and I hate that more.

I stomp back under the tree, swatting the long branches out of my way and struggling into my sleeping bag. Of course I can't get back to sleep. I lay on my back, spinning one of my knives between my fingers and scowling.

Maysilee comes in and sits beside me. I start to worry that what I'm doing looks too much like sulking, so I set my knife aside and dig in my pack for the blowtorch so it seems like I'm checking our supplies.

I lean back and flick the trigger. Just like before, a blue flame erupts from the end with a hiss, then vanishes as soon as I let the trigger go.

I play with it for a while, flicking it on and off. Maysilee ignores me and goes to sleep, but I keep playing with it anyway. On and off. Flame and no flame.

If I'd known I'd find this, I wouldn't have bothered learning how to start a fire back at the Training Center. Of course, I've had a box of matches this whole time and haven't lit a single one. With my sleeping bag, I haven't gotten cold enough to need a fire for warmth, and the only food that's safe to eat is cooked already.

On, off. Flame, no flame. I've been staring at the blowtorch so long that now, even when I switch the flame off, I can see its silhouette on the backs of my eyes.

Even if I had been cold or hungry, fire would be a huge liability in the arena. If the smell and sound of crackling wood weren't enough, the smoke would be a great way to lead every tribute in the arena straight to me. The only place I reckon it would be safe to build a fire is out by the hedge, where there's no one else for miles. And anyway, there's nothing to burn out there but stunted little trees and… And the hedge.

I bolt upright in my sleeping bag. The hedge. The impenetrable hedge that I can't go over, around or through. Not without full body armor, anyway – or a blowtorch.

I'm so excited that I want to pack up and get moving right away. But Maysilee is my ally now, and she wants to stay here. I lean back against the tree, turning the blowtorch over and over in my hands and thinking about how I can get her to come with me. I could just tell her the truth, but I'm not sure I trust her with it. It's not that I think she'll betray me or try to find the edge of the arena on her own – it's more that I don't think she'll want to go at all. Despite her whole message about peace and brotherhood or whatever, I've started to realize that Maysilee plans to win, to get back to District 12 and her good life there. I don't have any illusions about my chances of survival. I know I'm not going to make it out of here, but that doesn't mean I can't make the Gamemakers look foolish before I die. To do that, I'll need to make my own rules. Something I'm not so sure Maysilee is willing to do.

It starts raining just before dawn. I wake Maysilee and we go outside to see how her funnel idea works. It actually works pretty well, and I make myself act pleased and impressed. It's not too hard, since I'm both.

We fill up Maysilee's bowl, my small bottle and one of the Career's bigger ones before the downpour ends. Then we head back under the tree to drip dry as we eat our breakfast and take sips from Maysilee's bowl. I can see that Maysilee is making an effort to eat slowly, but she still finishes her meal in half the time it takes me.

Once I've finished, I take the plunge.

"I want to keep moving."

"Why?"

I shrug, trying to look casual. Maysilee doesn't seem suspicious, so I guess I must be pulling it off. That, or my face is so swollen that I can't make expressions anymore. Judging by how it feels, I'm guessing the latter.

We pack up our stuff, unhook the funnel from the tree, and head off.

As soon as I spot a good climbing tree, I turn to Maysilee.

"I'm going to see if I can tell where the other tributes are," I whisper, nodding at the tree. "Cover me?"

She nods and raises her blowgun, peering into the woods. My knife hasn't left my hand since the fight yesterday, but I manage to climb the tree in spite of my grip on its handle. The other two knives are a cool, steady comfort at my waist.

When I'm high enough up, I find the blackened husk of the mountain, then hang around a little longer to make it seem like I'm trying to spot tributes in the woods. I drop back to the ground a few minutes later. The jolt twangs my nose, making my eyes water.

"Anything?" Maysilee asks.

I shake my head and she gives me a consoling smile.

"It was worth a try."

I lead the way, adjusting our path so the mountain is at our backs. If Maysilee notices the change in direction, she doesn't comment.

By midafternoon, Maysilee is dragging several yards behind me. I want to keep moving, but she looks so slagged that I suggest we take a break to eat. I can tell that she's not used to walking this far on this little food. I'd guess that she's been sticking pretty close to the place Twylah died since the Games began. I feel a little bad for dragging her along on my personal mission without letting her in on the secret, but she's not complaining and I don't tell her.

Maysilee finishes her food first again, then sits there fidgeting and looking hungry.

"What's that?" I ask to distract her.

"What's what?"

I point at the pin on her jacket – her district token. It looks like a bird or something.

Maysilee looks down like she's forgotten it was there.

"Oh. It's a mockingjay."

"Did you choose it?" I ask, thinking of the way I got my token. I wonder if it was her sister's or mother's, just something they happened to be wearing at the reaping.

For some reason, Maysilee blushes.

"Yes. It's been in my family for a long time." She catches her breath like she wants to say more. Then she blurts, "Since the Dark Days, actually." She bites her lip and looks up at the trees. "Also, I like birds."

I chew in silence for a while, trying to figure out why she's being so weird about that pin. Maysilee's always been a little weird, I guess.

"Oh," I say, since it seems like I have to say something. "It's pretty."

"Thanks," she mumbles.

I chew in silence for a while. Maysilee is watching me, and I pretend not to notice. She really is odd.

"Your shoulder looks better," she says after a while.

I glance down and see that she's right. I noticed that the wound wasn't oozing when we set off this morning, but now I see that the swelling has gone down and the skin that was red has faded to pink. I smile in spite of myself.

"Guess you were right about that goop."

Maysilee shrugs. "My friend Elsie's dad is the apothecary. I've picked up some stuff." She chatters on while I smear more of the Careers' medicine on my shoulder. "He doesn't have anything like that, though. Only Dr. Akensen could get medicine that expensive. The Careers must have good sponsors."

I grunt, pretending to examine my arm so I don't have to look at her. I've been avoiding this topic. Something tells me that throwing away valuable medicine inside the arena is one message Maysilee would not approve of.

"I'm surprised we haven't had any sponsors yet," Maysilee muses. I scowl and go back to chewing my lunch.

Just then, the cannon sounds.

Maysilee and I look at each other. Final six.

"Stay alive and you might get one yet," I say. I pop the last of my dried beef into my mouth and stand up. "Let's keep moving."

We walk until the forest takes on the orangey glow of sunset I've come to know so well. I'm starting to forget what the forest around Twelve looks like. It feels like this forest is every forest, and I've been walking through it my entire life.

Maysilee finds a small space between some bushes for us to make camp. There's no shelter from the rain, but at least our sleeping bags are waterproof and we're pretty well hidden if any other tributes wander by.

I climb into a nearby tree to hang the funnel and check the position of the mountain again. It's harder to see now that half of it is missing, but I think we're still on track.

When I get back to our camp, I find Maysilee trying to make some space between our sleeping bags. It's going to be tight. We get into our bags, head to toe, and go about our evening routines. I pop a piece of fruit in my mouth and chew it slowly, checking, adjusting and rechecking the position of my knives. Maysilee counts her remaining food, sighs, and puts everything back in her pack except for a single strip of beef, which she tries to take small bites of.

The sky darkens. The anthem plays. The cannon we heard today was for a girl from Nine whose face I don't even recognize. The anthem ends, and the normal nighttime sounds of the forest return.

"What do you miss most about home?" Maysilee murmurs after a while.

"Don't do that."

She blinks at me, all innocence.

"What?"

"Don't play the pity card. You won't catch sponsors that way."

She looks insulted – or maybe just mad that I figured her out.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" she demands in a violent whisper. "Why do you have to be so hateful all the time? I've survived in here just as long as you, so stop treating me like an idiot. Just for one_ second_ could you stop acting so _damned_ smug and pretend to be a decent human being for once!"

She stops, her chest heaving and her face wild. She looks ridiculous. I bite back a laugh, tilting my face away so she can't see me roll my eyes.

Too late.

Maysilee flops onto her side with her back to me, not-so-accidentally kicking me in the ribs.

"Hey!" I snap.

"Shut up," she retorts. Then, "You can take first watch."

I'm still smirking – I can't help it, she's being so ridiculous – but I do feel a little bad. Maybe she really was just trying to make conversation. Or maybe she was trying to milk the sponsors. Either way, she's stuck with me all day, not to mention saving my life yesterday, and it's not my place to get in the way of whatever game she wants to play with the audience.

"What do _you_ miss most about home?" I try, propping myself up on my elbows. Maysilee's eyes are open until she notices me looking. Then she squeezes them shut.

"Forget it."

I sigh and lay back, spinning one of my knives between my fingers. I wait for the sound of Maysilee's quiet snores, but they don't come. Instead, I hear a sniffle. My heart sinks.

"I'll tell you what I miss least," I whisper, mostly so I don't have to hear her sniveling. When she doesn't answer, I go on. "I don't miss Shaft Mechanics. What a bore."

Maysilee is silent for so long that I decide she must really be freezing me out. Finally, she mutters, "We don't have to take that class."

Of course, I think, my blood rising. The merchant brats will never see the inside of a mineshaft. Then again, most kids from Twelve will never see the inside of an arena. So I guess Maysilee and I have that in common.

"You're lucky. I'd face down every squirrel in this place if it meant never having to hear about ventilation networks or blast analyses again."

Maysilee snorts and I relax.

"I don't miss setting the table for dinner," she offers. It's pretty weak, but I go with it.

"I don't miss spending every other weekend sweating over a boiling vat of laundry."

"I don't miss cleaning my canary's cage."

"I don't miss sucking coal dust every day."

Maysilee snorts again, a lighter sound this time. "No one would miss that."

We're silent for so long that I think maybe she's asleep. I go back to spinning my knife, watching the smooth, cool blade throw off the weak light of the stars.

"I miss my family," Maysilee whispers in a voice so small that I almost don't hear it.

At first, I don't say anything. We might be on millions of screens across Panem right now. We might be on none at all. I chew my lip, my eyes fixed on the edge of my knife.

"Me too," I say at last.

Maysilee doesn't say anything. A few minutes later, she starts to snore.


	16. Chapter 16

16

The next morning, I can tell Maysilee thinks we're going to stay put. She takes her time over breakfast for once, then goes to check on the funnel. It's still there, but it hasn't rained.

While she's over by the tree, I pack up my stuff. I'm cramming one of the Career's water bottles on top of my sleeping bag when she comes back. I look up at her and she raises her eyebrows.

"Let's get moving."

"Why?"

I don't want to lie to her, so I don't say anything. Once my bag is packed, I sling it over my shoulders – my wound is skin-colored now, and finally starting to heal – and go stand a few yards away, so she knows I mean right now.

Maysilee glares at me and I glare back, my arms folded across my chest. After a few moments, she caves and starts packing up her stuff. While she's doing that, I take the funnel down and squeeze it into my bag on top of everything else. We'll need to get it out fast when the morning rain comes.

But noon rolls around and it still hasn't rained. It's shaping up to be the hottest day so far, and Maysilee and I are both sweating buckets.

"Haymitch," Maysilee pants as the sun passes its peak, "let's stop for a while."

"I want to keep moving," I say, not looking back.

"Why?" She sounds so miserable that I finally turn. She's stripped off her jacket, but her face is bright red and her hair is sticking to her neck in clumps. I'm sure I don't look much better.

"Let's take a break for some water," I suggest. She slumps to the ground, not bothering to take off her pack.

She doesn't get out her water, and I don't get out mine. It's the eighth day of the Games. It's been four days since they blew up the mountain and one day since our fight with the Careers. I don't know how the girl from Nine died, but it probably wasn't very entertaining. It's not hard to guess what the Gamemakers are doing, but neither of us wants to say it out loud.

"I'm going to have a look around," I tell her, heading for a nearby tree. She waves her blowgun at me to show she's got my back, then starts fanning herself with her hand.

It's even hotter in the tree. There's no breeze, and the air sits hot and sullen on the branches. Far in the distance, I can just see the burned stump of the mountain. We should be getting close to the hedge, but I can't see it.

I climb back down and find Maysilee picking at her chapped lips. I take the small bottle of water out of my pack, take a swig, and then hand the rest to her. She stares at me, and for a second I think she's going to refuse it. Then her thirst wins out and she drains the bottle.

"Thanks," she mutters.

I reach down and she holds out the empty bottle. When I don't take it, she gets the message and puts her hand in mine with a sigh. I pull her to her feet, then turn and keep walking away from the mountain.

"Did you see someone?" she calls after me in a hushed voice. I don't answer. "Why do we have to keep walking?"

After a few seconds, I hear her hurrying to catch up.

We walk through the rest of the afternoon. My mouth is parched and my head aches. I allow myself a few small sips out of the Careers' bottle, but I know this water might need to last me until the edge of the arena and I don't want to waste a drop that I don't absolutely need. The air cools as the sun goes down, and that brings some relief.

When the light turns orange, we start to look for somewhere to set up camp. I find a narrow space between a mossy boulder and some big, leafy bushes, and we stretch out our sleeping bags in there. I lean back against the rock, letting the cool dampness of the moss soak through my sweaty shirt. Maysilee peels some of the moss off the boulder and wrings it above her head, managing to squeeze a few drops of muddy water onto her face.

"Should we bother setting up the funnel?" she asks in a weary voice.

"Couldn't hurt," I say, but neither of us moves to do it. Maysilee closes her eyes and rests her cheek against the cool rock. I tilt my face toward the amber web of leaves above me. It looks too much like a cage to be pretty.

The cannon sounds and both of us snap to attention.

"Maybe Larvina will send us some water once we finish ours," Maysilee says, fingering the zipper on her pack.

"I wouldn't count on it."

Maysilee frowns at me. "Why? There are only three other tributes left. Not everyone can be betting on the Careers, especially since…"

She trails off, and I know what she doesn't want to say.

Especially since we killed three of them. And she's right. We should have sponsors by now. No matter how pathetic our district is, Maysilee and I killed three of the deadliest tributes in the arena. We've proved that we can survive in here, and that we'll do what it takes to win.

"Maybe we have sponsors, but everything's too expensive right now," I mumble. I can feel Maysilee's eyes on me and I fidget with my knives, adjusting them in my belt. My explanation is good – gifts get more expensive every day of the Games. And if the Gamemakers have shut off the rain in the arena, it's possible that water is a banned gift now, anyway.

Maysilee is still watching me. I turn to face her with a scowl.

"You're not telling me something," she accuses. I look away again. She's right. There are a lot of things I'm not telling her. I try to figure out which one will make her the least angry. Failing that, I decide to tell her the one that might save her life.

"I don't think you'll get any sponsor gifts as long as you're with me," I admit. I pull out one of my knives and spin it between my fingers, watching the blade twist.

"Why not?"

"Because I already had a gift."

I say it so quietly that I'm not sure Maysilee will hear. But of course she does.

"What? When? What did you get?"

"Just stuff for my shoulder. Some medicine."

Maysilee doesn't say anything for a moment.

"Well, it didn't work very well," she says, but I can hear uncertainty in her voice. She hasn't figured out what I did, but she can tell it was something bad. I doubt she'd ever guess the truth. Only a lunatic would throw away medicine in the arena.

I straighten up and look her in the eyes. I'm not ashamed of what I did. I would do it again. If Maysilee is angry, that's her problem.

"I didn't use it," I say. "I threw it away."

Maysilee gapes at me. I can practically see the wheels spinning in her head as she tries to understand what I'm telling her. I can't help smirking a little. I hope whoever gave me that medicine looked just as shocked when they saw what I did.

"Why would you do that?" Maysilee finally asks. Her voice is shaking a little, and there's something like fear in her eyes. Like she thinks I might be dangerously insane. Maybe I am. I'm not as dangerously insane as the Gamemakers, though.

"Because they don't own me," I growl. I'm telling Maysilee, but I want to tell them, too. "And I don't owe them. They don't get to pay their way into the Games. We're the ones starving and fighting and dying of thirst. They don't get to pretend that they're a part of this, like they're down in the arena with us when they're sitting fat and comfortable in their Capitol mansions." My voice is getting louder and I stop, forcing myself back to a whisper.

"Why do you think they have the Games?"

Maysilee doesn't answer. She's still staring at me like I might be crazy. I feel a little crazy. I'm parched, I'm exhausted, I'm injured and I'm terrified, but more than anything, I'm angry. I'm furious that they can do this to us, that they can put us in here and force us to do their dirty work for them, when really, they're the ones that want us dead. I'm outraged by their lies, by the pretense that this is about sacrifice and courage and honor, when all it's really about is manipulation. A way to keep the Capitol entertained and the districts hating each other.

Maysilee still hasn't spoken and I answer my own question.

"It's all for show. It's not about punishing us for the Dark Days – if they just wanted to do that, they'd round up a bunch of people and shoot them every year. The Games are to entertain the Capitol, to distract them from their boring, meaningless lives. They're useless, they don't do anything but feed their fat faces and dye themselves different colors and put on stupid clothes and then eat some more. And the only way they keep from killing themselves out of boredom is by watching us die instead, so they can try to feel something – try to feel alive." My words are getting away from me, taking on a life of their own. Every hateful feeling I've had about the Capitol and the Games is bubbling out of me, and I find myself saying things I didn't even know I thought.

"That's why they make the arenas into tourist sites," I rant, "so they can go there and see where we died and try to imagine it was them. Try to imagine their lives were ever that exciting. We have what they want. And I'm not going to let them be a part of my Games. I'm not going to play up to the sponsors. They can stick to their stupid, fat, miserable lives until they have the guts to come in here and kill me themselves."

My head throbs with every beat of my heart. I'm shaking and I feel light-headed. Already I don't remember exactly what I said, but I know I meant every word of it.

Maysilee is staring at me like she thinks I might explode. But I'm pretty sure I'm done exploding for the night.

I slump back against the boulder, my stomach roiling. Everything I've said is true, and absolutely none of it matters. It doesn't change a thing. Maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after, they'll find a way to kill me without getting their hands dirty. The Games will end. The victor will go on tour, and the other districts will pretend not to hate them. This arena will become another tourist site. Maybe people will visit the place where I killed Brocade and the boy from Two. Maybe they'll visit the place where I died. But not if I can help it. Not if it's outside the arena.

"You're a very angry person," Maysilee says at last.

"Aren't you?"

Maysilee seems to think about it. "I suppose," she admits. She offers me a small smile. "I guess you've just had more practice than me."

She's still watching me, but she doesn't look like she's about to run away. After what I've just done, I reckon she probably should. They definitely didn't broadcast my rant, but the Gamemakers saw it. I'm sure they'll make my life harder if they can.

I force myself to stop shaking, gripping the handle of my knife until my knuckles turn white. Maysilee takes a couple tiny sips of water, then starts eating a piece of dried fruit. After a moment, I do the same. There's not enough spit in my mouth to attempt the dried beef.

It gets dark and the anthem plays. The death tonight was a boy from Seven. That leaves us, Filigree, the girl from Four and the boy from Five.

I think Maysilee's feeling sorry for me after my outburst, and she offers to take first watch. I turn her down and she settles into her sleeping bag. I stare up at the dark sky and the darker leaves and listen to the sounds of the forest.

Part of me hopes my death is quick, easy. Part of me hopes it's slow and boring, just to rub it in the audience's faces. A lot of me is still clinging to the fantasy that there's something on the other side of that hedge. Something I can use to get away, or at least to send a message. Hopefully, it will be a message the Capitol can't help but broadcast.


End file.
